


An Extraordinary Man

by groundyonly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 68,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of Season 2, Episode 2, "An Ordinary Man," d'Artagnan is left questioning his suitability to be a musketeer-- and a with need to redeem himself in the eyes of his King. Will this new mission do the trick? Or make things worse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _The Three Musketeers_ has been one of my favorite books for more than 20 years. The adventures of d’Artagnan (who will never, sorry, be “d’Art” to me) and his friends have been read and re-read at least a dozen times. I even have my favorite translation (the 1941 Great Illustrated Classics version), and my favorite movie version(s) (1973 and 1974 films with Michael York, Richard Chamberlain and Charlton Heston). It was with great trepidation, therefore, that I initially turned on BBC’s _The Musketeers._ But what a joy it was to see that they could come up with new stories and use the book as a backdrop. Characterization was pretty spot on, the original storyline wasn’t radically ignored, and well, it wasn’t bad to look at these guys, either!
> 
> So, my thoughts ran wild after “An Ordinary Man” (2:2), and this was what I began. This will go slowly, it’s a very very busy time for me at the moment… but I wanted to get started. Please let me know what you think! Thanks x

D’Artagnan allowed his musketeer friends to drag him to a tavern, where they clapped him on the shoulder to offer sage comfort and plied him with alcohol. He bit his lip and forced a smile when the touches were too harsh for his aching body, and tipped the wine out onto the floor or into someone else’s cup when it was too much for his mood and his companions weren’t looking.

Eventually, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had consumed enough alcohol themselves that he no longer had to pretend to be enjoying himself, and he begged off for the night, something they assumed was due to his own drunkenness and potentially the need to get some sleep after the last thirty-six hours, about which they were certain in their wine-soaked states that they had erased all residual bad feelings.

The young musketeer eased himself down onto his bed back at the garrison, stiffly and not without more than one hitch in his breathing. His ordeal with Sebastian LeMaître, chained to a naïve yet stubborn King Louis XIII and being marched off to a life as a Spanish galley slave, had taken its toll on d’Artagnan in more ways than one. Fear, duty, shock, and anger had all taken their turns racing through him as he fought to survive and protect His Majesty. Now, in the aftermath, with the adrenalin rush subsided, it was weariness, disappointment, and pain that plagued him. 

He pressed one hand carefully against his sore stomach, an unwelcome memory of the large baton used to subdue him in the first place flashing through his mind. Then he pulled the hand away and turned both hands palms up to look at his wrists. Raw, red, and in some places shredded but no longer bleeding, he curled his fingers into loose fists, stopping when the stinging made his eyes prickle with tears. Another memory appeared, this one of the approach of the musketeers in the woods, ready to rescue him and the monarch, relief flooding through him as he looked up at Athos. “Am I glad to see you.” The words poured out of him, the feeling of security finally allowing exhaustion into his consciousness. Then Athos’s words in return: “Is the King safe?”

D’Artagnan understood the greeting; it was Athos’s duty—indeed, all the musketeers’ duty—to protect the king before all else. His own mind was racing, drifting back to the last day and a half; darting forward to the immediate future. It was only later, on the long trek back to Paris, that the wounded, tired, and frightened part of him had whispered inwardly, _“What about me?”_

“Never mind that,” he muttered now to himself, his body protesting the lateness of the hour, his head throbbing, but not from drink. He reached down and slowly, painfully pulled off his boots, then without bothering to do more than take off his pauldron, he pulled his legs up on to the bed, curled into himself, and fell into a deep but troubled sleep.

* TM * TM * TM *

The first weak rays of sunlight woke d’Artagnan the next morning. He opened his eyes just a little, rubbing one hand slowly across his face and up into his damp, tangled hair. After a moment, he frowned, realizing that at some point in the night he must have crawled under the blankets on his bed, a move he couldn’t remember making, but for which he was grateful, as his head was still aching, but at least now it was on a pillow. He shifted a little, stopping as each bruise and gash and strain that had stiffened overnight woke up with him. 

_“Tell me! Or he dies.”_

The barrel of the pistol mere inches from d’Artagnan’s chest made his stomach clench, but he knew he had to do his duty. He leaned in ever so slightly to the King and advised, _“Don’t.”_

D’Artagnan tried to remember the look on King Louis’s face, whether the idea of his protector being shot dead in front of him disturbed the monarch. But he couldn’t. He only remembered that the King had gone ahead and announced his identity, but whether that had been through anger or whether to protect his subject—well, d’Artagnan wondered if he knew the truth of that. Still, he had done his duty as a musketeer: protect the King. Protect France.

Against his better judgment, he began to sit up. The pain was instant, and sharp. He paused, bit his lip, kept moving. Another image flashed into his mind, then his own voice in his memory: _“Pepin? Get up! Come on! Come on! Pepin, get up!”_ Another shot. Another loss. D’Artagnan shook his head now, Pepin’s staring eyes boring into him, the uncomprehending look on the man’s face calling out to d’Artagnan even as the King grabbed him as he screamed and pulled him away. Away…

D’Artagnan felt his eyes fill with tears, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the last forty-eight hours. A risky royal request; a violent struggle and capture; mistreatment and pain and fear mixed with a strong duty to keep the King safe; the return of Milady de Winter; the fight for freedom; and then the return to the palace to watch the Dauphin’s christening while pretending that all was well. Everything had washed over him and through him as it happened. He’d walked through it all mechanically, not giving himself the chance to digest what was happening. His three closest companions had never given up on finding the King, probably the most important mission they had ever had, just as protecting him during their captivity was probably the single most important thing d’Artagnan had ever been entrusted to do, even by circumstance. And he’d succeeded, they _all_ had. Honorably.

So why did he feel so bad?

_“Why do you musketeers insist on disappointing me?”_

D’Artagnan swiped at his eyes, angry at himself. Only children cried at words. He wasn’t a boy any more; he was a man. And more than that, he was a musketeer. Determined to be the solider he had sworn an oath to be, he stood up quickly, ignoring the pull of his injuries, and cleaned himself up to face the day.

* TM * TM * TM *

His first stop once he left his quarters was the office of the Captain of the Musketeers, Monsieur de Tréville. Normally, he would have been questioned about the events immediately, but after the successful return of the King, followed by the christening of the Dauphin, topped off with the dressing down of d’Artagnan by the monarch, Tréville had taken a look at the young Gascon and waved him into the arms of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and told him to return in the morning, after he’d had time to clean up, eat, drink, and most of all, sleep.

D’Artagnan entered, then stopped when he saw that Tréville was not alone. “It’s all right, d’Artagnan,” the leader of the musketeers greeted. “Rochefort is here to see _you.”_

D’Artagnan glanced at the King’s right-hand man with both suspicion and confusion, then looked to Tréville as he came further into the room, his question asked with his eyes. 

“The King has sent me, d’Artagnan,” Comte de Rochefort announced. D’Artagnan looked back at him, furrowed his brow. “The palace needs to understand your allegiance.”

The young Gascon’s eyes darkened as the King’s voice echoed in his head. _Are you taking sides with a traitor against your king?_ “My allegiance is to His Majesty,” d’Artagnan said dangerously.

“Believe me, d’Artagnan, it is not I who asks. I have no doubt that you did all you could to prevent the King being kidnapped and nearly made into a Spanish galley slave.” Though the words were conciliatory, there was something in them, and in the arch tone of the Comte’s voice, that set d’Artagnan on edge. “No, it is the king who is concerned.”

Tréville saw that the musketeer was about to speak and talked first. “His Majesty surely knows that d’Artagnan is loyal to the crown. By all reports, he was a brave and honorable protector during their captivity.”

“For the most part,” Rochefort qualified with a nod.

“The— _the most part?”_ d’Artagnan spluttered. “When did I—when did I _ever—”_

Rochefort gave the tiniest shrug. “One could say that the inability to stop the capture itself was a failure.”

“The King himself demanded the outing, with the express disapproval of the musketeers,” Tréville cut in.

Rochefort raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Are you suggesting that the King was _wrong_ in going out amongst his people?” he asked archly.

At this, Tréville knew that he had to back down. “I’m merely saying the musketeers expressed concern that they could not guarantee his safety in such circumstances.” He glanced over at d’Artagnan, who was boiling fit to burst, but who, miraculously, understood the need for restraint at the moment. 

Rochefort observed the looks exchanged by the two men, then declared, “Then perhaps His Majesty’s _mistake_ was in trusting musketeers. Certainly d’Artagnan’s refusal to do his bidding by killing Bruno LeMaître could be construed as such.”

 _“I’m not an executioner,”_ d’Artagnan declared. “The King gave his _word—”_

“That is called ‘military strategy,’ my dear d’Artagnan. Something I would have thought musketeers were familiar with. The best way to ensure your success that day was to enlist the help of your enemy.”

“But LeMaître accepted him at his word—he fought with his heart, _believing—”_

“Then the strategy was all the more successful. D’Artagnan, I shall return to the King and tell him that you are devoted but young and full of romantic notions. This may satisfy him for now. In the meantime, it has reached my ear that you are the one who killed the man responsible for setting you up for capture. Perhaps you should consider why it was so _easy_ to kill him—and so hard to kill the man who made it possible to keep you in captivity. Especially when ordered to by our royal master.”

D’Artagnan felt sick as Rochefort gave a sharp farewell to Tréville and swept out of the room. He barely noticed when the Captain turned to face him. “D’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan was still lost in a sea of emotions. He shook his head, staring at the floor. “D’Artagnan,” Tréville repeated. “You did nothing wrong, lad. What you said to the King was correct: you are a soldier, not an executioner. What he was expecting of you was too much.”

D’Artagnan raised his eyes to his Captain. “What a king asks of his musketeers is never too much,” he replied, his mouth dry.

A small smile appeared on Tréville’s lips. “And that statement, d’Artagnan, is why you are a fine musketeer. Between you and me, and I will deny it if you ever repeat it, the King was wrong. But only in expecting you to see killing LeMaître as a reward for your loyalty. Unfortunately, Rochefort is correct: although the King may have been frightened and spoke without thinking in order to enlist LeMaître’s help at the time, it is certainly sound military strategy to fool an enemy into helping you win a battle. That does not make them any less an enemy when the battle is won.”

D’Artagnan nodded numbly. “Yes, sir.”

Tréville regarded the young musketeer critically. “You don’t look rested, d’Artagnan. In all the excitement of the rescue and the pomp and circumstance of the Dauphin’s christening, I fear we’ve let you fend for yourself.”

“I’m fine, Captain,” d’Artagnan answered.

“Athos, Porthos and Aramis have told me some about the final battle for your freedom. And that you yourself killed the publican who organized your capture, as Rochefort referred to.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain moved in until d’Artagnan felt compelled to look him in the eye. “It was personal,” he surmised quietly. D’Artagnan nodded. What felt like shame emanated from the young musketeer in waves. “It may have been,” Tréville acknowledged; “but that does not mean it was not necessary. You have nothing to regret.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan replied, without as much conviction as he tried to convey.

Tréville smiled. “Now go and have some breakfast. You will need to come back with the others in an hour. Rochefort didn’t just come here to make you miserable; there is a directive from the King, one that despite his words to the contrary he would not entrust to anyone less than his best musketeers.” 

D’Artagnan nodded his thanks and offered a weak smile, which was replaced by a short, sharp gasp when Tréville clapped him strongly on the right arm in a gesture of support. The Captain frowned as d’Artagnan bit his lip and tried to school his expression to make it seem as though nothing had happened.

“Are you hurt?” Tréville asked, frowning as d’Artagnan’s forehead broke out in a sweat.

“I’m fine, Captain,” d’Artagnan repeated, pulling his arm in close.

“So you say, and yet I don’t believe you,” Tréville replied. “See that Aramis tends to you—and don’t think I won’t know if he doesn’t. I’m surprised they haven’t given you the once-over already.”

“It was all very... busy yesterday, Captain.”

Tréville smiled knowingly. “Indeed it was. If you are not well for this mission, d’Artagnan, you must tell me. You have certainly earned the rest if need be.”

“I’ll be fine, Captain,” the Gascon said.

The Captain nodded. “I thought you’d say as much. Find Aramis, and I will let him decide.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which d'Artagnan does as he's told, but has a hard time coming to grips with the King's wrath.

Hello all, and thanks so much for the lovely feedback! I hope I didn’t miss anyone. If I did, I’m so sorry! I’m in the midst of final edits of a biography that will FINALLY be published in September, which is why I have been silent so long… but more to come… PLEASE let me know what you think—feedback is like OXYGEN! 

* TM * TM * TM *

“You should have brought this to my attention yesterday, d’Artagnan,” Aramis scolded, gently. He watched as the young Gascon carefully pulled his shirt sleeve over the freshly-applied balm meant to soothe the throbbing in his arm and shoulder that had not stopped since he and Louis had tumbled down the embankment in the woods. 

D’Artagnan wished Aramis hadn’t dragged him back here to the medically-minded soldier’s own quarters, with both Athos and Porthos in tow to watch. His mind still in a whirl over the capture, the reprimand of the King, and the confrontation with Rochefort, he paused just long enough to look the musketeer in the eye. “The focus was on the King and the Dauphin yesterday.” He looked back to his task.

Aramis exchanged a look with Athos and Porthos, uncertain of the meaning behind the words d’Artagnan spoke. Was he just stating fact? Or had Aramis detected anger? “True,” he answered carefully. “But your shoulder has clearly been jarred quite harshly, your ribs are bruised nearly black, and your back…”

His let the words go unspoken. D’Artagnan knew what Aramis was seeing; there was no need to describe it. He had been beaten violently at some stage during the ordeal. For helping Pepin or to shield the King, he couldn’t recall. It didn’t matter, the younger musketeer realized, trying to push the memories away. It didn’t matter at all.

“It’s healing.”

“D’Artagnan, why did you not tell us?” Athos asked.

“You didn’t ask,” d’Artagnan answered simply. He regretted the blunt response when his companions shifted uncomfortably. So he added, “Your job was to rescue the King.”

“And _you,”_ Porthos amended, with a glance at the others.

“He had to come first,” d’Artagnan told them without anger. It was true. “I was secondary,” 

But the statement struck the others, and the room went uncomfortably quiet. Then Athos said softly, “Only in duty, d’Artagnan; not in heart.” 

D’Artagnan locked eyes with Athos at that moment, those few words from his mentor soothing him more than any of Aramis’s concoctions. 

“It is never acceptable to deal with this kind of discomfort when it isn’t necessary,” Athos advised him in a louder voice, drawing them all out of what had become an emotionally-charged situation. “If you have not ensured that you are fit to complete your duties when you are needed, you have not fulfilled your obligations as a musketeer.”

“It’s my fault as much as the boy’s,” Aramis said. “I should have asked.”

“Me, too,” chimed in Porthos. “I should’ve known he’d be too stubborn to tell us if anything was wrong.”

“I barely noticed it myself at first,” d’Artagnan defended himself. “But by the time I did, we were at the Dauphin’s christening. I wasn’t mortally wounded; it didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

Aramis frowned. “I suppose we were all a bit… distracted,” he admitted. D’Artagnan missed the quick look of understanding that passed between Aramis and Athos. “But afterwards…” 

“After our audience with the King and Rochefort, I wanted to be distracted myself,” d’Artagnan said. He stood up quickly, intending to brush the issue aside. But it was too quick, and he felt himself swaying after the poking and prodding of Aramis had left him weaker than he expected.

“Easy.” D’Artagnan felt Aramis’s steadying hand guiding him back down onto the bed. He closed his eyes, tried to regain his equilibrium. “Perhaps you’d best stay here today,” Aramis suggested.

“No," d’Artagnan answered, taking a breath in through his mouth and then swallowing to steady himself. He opened his eyes and looked at the others.

Porthos moved in and took hold of his arm as he stood again. “You don’t ’ave to kill yourself to prove to the King that you’re loyal,” he said. He met Porthos’s eyes, his own eyes serious, but said nothing. _“We_ already know.”

“Is that what this is about?” Athos asked. “The meeting with the King after the christening?”

D’Artagnan looked at his friend. “No.” _Yes. And with Rochefort this morning._ “I’m fit to carry out my duties.”

“Aramis?”

Aramis looked at the defiant, proud musketeer for a long moment, then nodded. “If he’s careful, he can ride today. Let us hope Captain Tréville has in mind for us something that is not terribly taxing to the body.”

“And if he does, we’ll be watching you,” Porthos warned their youngest.

D’Artagnan looked at his friend and nodded once. “I won’t need watching. Let’s go.”

* TM * TM * TM *

“Antoine Baudin was the son of a royal servant,” Tréville explained. “As a young boy, he once came to the palace with his mother and by chance met the King, who was also a child at the time. As children do, they became fast friends despite the social disparity, and Baudin became a trusted confidant. He remains so to this day.

“The King is sending him to Vassy to talk with the locals. There has been a rearing of heads there, and His Majesty wants to keep things calm. We need no more trouble, as there is already La Rochelle to deal with.”

“That’s quite a distance,” Athos mused. 

“With many chances for trouble along the way,” Tréville agreed. 

“And when we get there,” Porthos added. “These hot heads—we’re talking about Huguenots?”

Tréville nodded. “Yes.”

“Then I suppose the King is making it our duty to look after Baudin and make sure there are no… disturbances,” Aramis surmised.

“He is.”

Aramis glanced at his companions. “Well, at least we’re good for _something,”_ he said with a shrug.

Porthos nodded agreement. “Sure. What’ve a few hundred angry Protestants got that we haven’t?”

“A few hundred _more_ angry Protestants,” Athos replied. He looked at their Captain. “But our honor will win out, of course. Captain de Tréville, we stand ready to follow orders. But I think d’Artagnan should stay behind.”

“What? No!” d’Artagnan protested. He’d been quite content to listen to the banter of his friends with their Captain up to now. Although he certainly wasn’t feeling the best after his ordeal, he wasn’t going to bow out of this mission. Not only would it make him appear helpless in the sight of his friends, it would lower his standing even further—if that was possible—in the eyes of the King.

“D’Artagnan, it will take several days to reach Vassy, across what is not always pleasant terrain. And with your injuries, if we encounter any trouble—”

“Then I shall fight alongside you as I always have. I am fit to carry out my duties.” He looked toward Tréville, his expression both determined and pleading at the same time. “I am fit to travel and do my duties as a musketeer.”

Tréville met the young Gascon’s eyes, knew what lay behind them, then looked to the other musketeers. “Let him go,” Tréville said. “If he becomes a burden, you can leave him at an inn along the way. In the meantime, I want him among your numbers; there are too few of you going on this mission as it is. D’Artagnan knows country-bred people; he knows how they think, how they act. This can be a benefit to you. And I’m sure he’ll stop if he needs to.”

“More like if he _has_ to,” Porthos said.

“Like if he falls unconscious off his horse from the jarring of his wounds,” Aramis added.

D’Artagnan saw doubt flicker across Tréville’s face and shot Aramis a look.

“But knocking his head on the ground might actually improve his sense,” Athos put in. “We’d better let him come along.” D’Artagnan relaxed. “When do we leave?”

“You will prepare now and go to the palace to meet Baudin. The King himself wants to place him in your hands.”


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to all who have followed, favorited, kudo'd, and especially those who have left reviews (ah, to hear exactly what works and what you think! It helps so much!). Sorry it’s taken some time, the bulk of the other work I needed to do is done, so I should be able to get back to writing more regularly. I hope!  
Thank you for your patience. Again, please let me know what you think!! 

* TM * TM * TM *

“For people who disappoint him, he’s certainly trusting us with an important job,” Porthos said under his breath, as the four musketeers waited in the palace for the king’s arrival. Tréville stood nearby.

“His Majesty is forever giving second chances,” Aramis quipped.

“Or maybe he trusts others even less than us to get the job done,” Athos countered.

Aramis looked to his right at d’Artagnan. “You’re very quiet,” he observed. The Gascon was standing stock still, staring straight ahead. “Are you unwell, d’Artagnan?”

“No,” d’Artagnan answered shortly. In truth, he was simmering, remembering the rebuke of King Louis in this very room less than twenty-four hours ago. It was humiliating to the proud young man, and he didn’t know how he’d react when he saw the monarch again. “I just want to get started.”

“Steady, boy,” Athos said from his other side, his voice low. D’Artagnan knew that somehow, Athos understood exactly what was going on in his head. He’d still said nothing about his encounter with Rochefort this morning; he didn’t know how to explain that the question of how he’d killed one man with such ferocity but could not bring himself to slay another at the order of the King was one that troubled not only the palace, but also himself.

He was spared further contemplation when the King swept into the room, accompanied by Rochefort, several servants and courtiers, and another man whom they all presumed to be Baudin. They bowed low.

“This is Antoine Baudin,” the King confirmed, sweeping his hand toward the finely dressed man beside him. “Captain Tréville, I hope you have explained to your musketeers the importance of this mission going exactly as planned.”

“Of course, Sire. Your Majesty formed the musketeer regiment to protect yourself and your interests,” Tréville nodded.

“I know what I did, Tréville,” King Louis said with only a hint of disdain, and a larger portion of public mockery. “Lately I’m only surprised that you and your soldiers know it.”

D’Artagnan swallowed hard. 

“There is nothing more important to your musketeers than your safety, Sire,” Tréville replied. 

“Good,” the King said. He turned to his friend as he walked down the line of soldiers before him. “Antoine, these musketeers are passionate, though occasionally misdirected. I have no doubts about their military prowess and their ability to protect you from Protestant threats. The Huguenots can hardly be as frightening as a musketeer with a _romantic_ sense of honor.” 

This last sentence he directed at the Gascon, and d’Artagnan took in and let out a breath and glanced quickly at Rochefort standing nearby before dropping his eyes. He felt his friends on either side of him shift ever so slightly, as though to strengthen him somehow, and he remained quiet.

“I believe that you would only dispatch me with the best, Your Majesty,” Baudin said. He let his eyes travel down the line of men entrusted with his safety. “Any romantic notions will certainly disappear the moment someone draws a sword from his scabbard with an intent that is less honorable than their own.”

Louis smiled broadly. “My sensible friend,” he nodded. He turned fully to Baudin and grasped his hands, smiling warmly. “It is one of the reasons I accepted your offer to be the man to take on this important mission. Your sensibilities and your gentle nature will make you a fine ambassador with the Huguenots and help bring them into line; and your strength and prowess as a soldier and a leader will make you a hero of France.”

Baudin nodded, returning the smile. “I simply serve Your Majesty,” he replied. “I cannot accept credit for anything but loving you as I would my own brother. I will conduct the King’s business with honor.”

Louis held his eye for another moment, then glanced at Rochefort before turning back to the musketeers. “Le Comte de Rochefort assures me of your devotion. And if there’s one whose devotion is unquestionable, it is his, and so I take him at his word. He trusts you, and therefore so do I. Bring my brother home safely, musketeers. There will be no mercy if you fail.”

The musketeers and their Captain lowered their heads in acceptance of their orders. 

“Farewell, my friend,” the King said to Baudin. “The Queen and I will pray for the success of your mission, and your safe return.”

And he swept out of the room. Rochefort let his eyes run down the line of soldiers before following, then the courtiers and servants also departed. “Monsieur Baudin, these four musketeers are the best in the regiment,” Tréville said. “Porthos.” The big man nodded. “Aramis.” A small smile from the sharpshooter. “D’Artagnan. Athos.” Athos offered a nod, but d’Artagnan did nothing but look Baudin in the eye. “These men are sworn to protect the King, and those whom he deems worthy of the musketeers’ protection, to the death.”

Baudin offered a small smile in return as he looked over the men before him. “Let us hope it does not come to that,” he said. “Are we ready to go?”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Tréville answered. The musketeers broke rank and the men all walked out to leave the palace. “There are fresh horses and provisions outside. It will take four days to reach Vassy if you travel steadily. It will take you time to do complete the King’s work, then another four days to get back. If you have any trouble, my men know to send a messenger for reinforcements. But we don’t anticipate such a thing being needed.”

As Tréville and Baudin continued talking about the arrangements that had been made for the journey, Porthos walked more slowly to move astride d’Artagnan, who did not seem anxious to join in the discussion.

“What was all that about, then?” Porthos asked in a low voice.

“What are you talking about?” d’Artagnan replied, his eyes taking in everything around them, his jaw set. His expression invited no confidences.

“That whole thing with Rochefort. What was it?”

“There was no _thing_ with Rochefort,” d’Artagnan said.

“You’d have to be blind to have missed it—if the look in your eye had been your sword, he’d be dead by now,” Porthos said. D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “And from the look in _his,_ you wouldn’t be so healthy, either. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” d’Artagnan answered, his voice clipped.

“Look me in the eye and tell me that.”

D’Artagnan stopped and looked directly at his comrade. For a moment he said nothing, not trusting himself to speak lest he tell Porthos everything that happened that morning in Tréville’s office. Porthos held the gaze, waited.

“There’s nothing going on,” the Gascon said finally, his voice softer than he intended it to be.

Porthos absorbed d’Artagnan’s words, as well as the look in his eyes that begged for him to end it there. “All right, then,” Porthos said after a moment, and the two resumed walking.

“I don’t really need a reason to look at Rochefort that way anyway, do I,” d’Artagnan offered as an afterthought.

“Fair point,” Porthos conceded. “Forget I asked.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Long days of riding lay ahead of them, and several hours after they departed Paris, Aramis noticed d’Artagnan’s horse lagging behind the group. He slowed his own steed down to come up alongside the Gascon, and looked less than subtly at him, knowing d’Artagnan would be perceptive enough to know when he was being studied anyway.

This time, however, Aramis was distressed to be wrong. D’Artagnan didn’t really take notice of him; he was riding with his eyes dull and staring into his horse’s mane, trusting his mount to know where to go and follow the others, as it had learned to do over time. Every now and then a whisper of a grimace would pass over his features; other than that, he was expressionless.

Aramis moved in even closer. “Do you need to stop,” he guessed gently. D’Artagnan said nothing. “D’Artagnan,” Aramis said a bit more strongly.

The Gascon’s head jerked up, as though he had been awakened, and he looked at his friend with eyes slightly more alert, but no less pained. “I’m fine, Aramis,” he said, before his eyes drifted away again.

“It has been a long ride, and you must be in discomfort; let us stop and provide you some relief, then catch up with the others.”

“No,” d’Artagnan answered forcefully. “Aramis, we’re on a mission. I’m fine. There’s only an hour or so left of daylight. When we make camp you can fuss over me if you must. But not now. The King is expecting better.”

And with a small kick to the side of his horse, d’Artagnan moved ahead to catch up with the others.

* TM * TM * TM *

“How do you see the problem with the Huguenots, Athos?” Baudin and the musketeer were in the front of the little band, and they were riding side by side through a wider area, having slowed their horses to allow them to rest, while continuing to make progress.

Athos shrugged. “France is a Catholic country, and the Huguenots wish to impose their own set of rules on her. But France has been dedicated to God.”

“A Catholic God?” Baudin asked.

“The God of the King of France,” Athos replied. “And that is all that matters.”

Baudin absorbed the answer. “Have you ever been to Vassy?”

“I have not,” Athos said. “But they are farming people; they will be quite distinct in their ideas.”

“Country people either follow the king blindly, or they follow those who wish to oppose him with equal zeal.”

“D’Artagnan is country bred, from Gascony. He understands the heart of the farmer and will be of great benefit in Vassy, I feel.”

Baudin nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, the romantic musketeer.”

Athos furrowed his brow. _Romantic._ Louis had also used that term. “Most young men of his age could be considered… romantic, I suppose,” Athos said carefully. “Also Aramis, for certain, and upon occasion, even Porthos.”

“And yourself?” Baudin prompted.

“Not I.”

A small smile came up on to Baudin’s lips. Soon he asked, “And so on what side does d’Artagnan fall?”

Athos shot him a severe look. “There should be no question. D’Artagnan’s loyalties are always with His Majesty. He is the King’s champion, and he would die to keep him safe.”

“And yet I heard he refused when the King gave him the honor of ridding France of a loathsome criminal.”

“D’Artagnan is a soldier, not an executioner,” Athos quoted the lad’s own words. “His actions while the King was being held prisoner were exemplary. There should be no question,” he repeated. “D’Artagnan’s loyalties reflect those of all the musketeers. I’ll thank you to not to doubt him.”

“I never doubt His Majesty,” Baudin said. “And no offense is intended toward d’Artagnan or yourselves. Please accept the apologies of a nervous man who is aware that he’s walking into a less than safe situation.”

Athos nodded. “Of course. Be assured, we will all do our best to keep you safe. As if you were the King himself.”

And they rode on, but Athos now looked at him with different eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues, and d'Artagnan mainly keeps his problems to himself.

Thank you so much, all, for your feedback, kudos, follows, etc. Reviews are amazing because I can hear EXACTLY what you’re thinking, but everything else is also appreciated more than I can say. Next chapter is up!

* TM * TM * TM *

 

A day on horseback left d’Artagnan stiff and more than a little sore, and so when the group found a spot to make camp for the night, he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut as he dismounted, to tolerate the pain of his recent mistreatment that had come back with force. He patted the steed’s flank and then turned, finding Aramis mere inches away from him.

“You promised,” the musketeer said to him. “Tonight, I shall fuss.”

D’Artagnan just blinked, then offered a small smile that was intended to reflect some gentle humor, but which did not. “Later,” he said. “Right now, I just need something to eat.”

“And some wine,” advised Aramis, as the lad brushed past him. He shook his head and watched as d’Artagnan walked awkwardly toward the others.

“Shall I get firewood?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos, as the horses were relieved of their packs. 

“No. You shall sit down,” Porthos answered, after a glance toward Aramis, who nodded once. “Before you _fall_ down.”

“I can do my share of the work,” d’Artagnan insisted, with a hint of anger in his voice.

The sharp tone caught Athos’s attention, and he looked over toward the pair, but said nothing.

“I know you can,” said Porthos without missing a beat. “But I promised Aramis I’d get you drunk enough that you won’t try and run him through when he forces that piss-awful witch’s brew on you later.”

At this, the tension drained out of d’Artagnan’s shoulders and he smiled softly, letting out a huff of a laugh through his nose. “We’d better get started _now,_ then,” he said, lowering himself with some difficulty to the ground. “Because it’s going to take a lot for me to be that docile.”

“Comin’ right up,” Porthos declared, starting to unload the saddlebags.

Athos moved nonchalantly to Porthos’s side. “Just enough to loosen his tongue,” Athos said under his breath. “There’s something he’s not telling us.”

“Yeah, I got that impression this morning,” Porthos answered, handing Athos some of the provisions from the satchel. “And whatever it is involves Rochefort.”

“Which is never good for any of us,” Athos said. “Between the wine, Aramis’s herbs, and the persistence of his brothers, we may just find out how that worm has gotten into d’Artagnan’s head.”

Athos grabbed two cups and a flagon and moved down to where their youngest was still trying to get comfortable. He sat down beside him and stretched out his legs. D’Artagnan threw him a quick glance, then went back to his own shifting, eventually finding a position that offered him some relief, and he let out a breath through his mouth and let his head tip back, closing his eyes.

“Here,” Athos said. D’Artagnan opened his eyes to see his friend holding out a cup. He took it, and Athos filled it with the wine from the flagon, and then filled his own, though less so. D’Artagnan’s raised eyebrow said he noticed.

“Orders are orders,” Athos said in reply. “Aramis is too pretty to be hit.”

D’Artagnan shook his head softly, then raised the cup to his lips. When he continued to say nothing, Athos said, “It’s only been a day, d’Artagnan. It will take time for you to put all this behind you.”

“I’ve _put_ it behind me,” d’Artagnan answered, his tone not supporting his words. “I keep telling you all that I’m fine, yet you treat me like an invalid.”

Athos furrowed his brow. “You are our brother, d’Artagnan. You were missing and in great danger. Your injuries, much as you try to pretend they aren’t there, concern us. And then the King’s unjustified reprimand… it was difficult for us all; more for you, since you had spent the previous day preserving his life.”

“I’m fine.” D’Artagnan looked into his cup, but didn’t drink. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

“And yet you would do the same, if one of us was in your place.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “That’s different. You’d fight it and go about your duties anyway.”

“The privilege of age and experience,” Athos said. 

Another moment of silence between them. Then, almost as if to himself, d’Artagnan said, “If it were you, or Aramis, or Porthos, no one would question you. But because it’s me, they question my fitness as a musketeer.”

_“Who_ questions?” Athos probed, frowning.

D’Artagnan stared into his cup, then out to the trees. He shook his head. “No one,” he said quietly.

The two sat in silence after that. Athos drained his cup; he noticed d’Artagnan did not. “Drink,” Athos said, standing up. “It won’t be enough, but Aramis will work his black magic anyway. At least you can dull your senses to it. I’m going to check on our charge.”

D’Artagnan watched him leave, but said nothing, and did not drink.

* TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan moved between the trees with mild agitation and with great difficulty. He had given up on sleep an hour ago, lulled into slumber by the ministrations of Aramis, a bit of wine, and the long day’s travel. But he woke in the middle of the night to find every bruise, graze and fractured rib reminding him of their existence again. Every inch of him was feeling something unpleasant, and the pain was rapidly growing teeth. He couldn’t move with ease, and yet he couldn’t stand still, needing to distract one sharper twinge with another. And he promised himself he would not wake Aramis for more of the foul concoction he’d had forced upon him before he drifted off earlier. No more coddling; he could handle it on his own.

Lost in his own thoughts and concentration, he was startled by a movement out of the corner of his eye. Despite the discomfort, he stopped pacing immediately and pulled back to the darkness of the trees. The shadow came closer, and d’Artagnan held his breath, ignoring the knife-jabs that accompanied the expansion of his lungs against his ribs, and wishing he had at least his _main gauche._

“Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan let out the breath he’d been holding and moved out of the shadow of the trees. “Monsieur Baudin. It isn’t wise to approach a musketeer in the dark without announcing yourself. It could be bad for your health.”

Baudin offered the Gascon a small smile. “I’ll take my chances with you, my young friend,” he said.

D’Artagnan’s expression hardened. “What does that mean?”

Baudin waved a hand as if to dismiss the tension as he continued to close the distance between them. “It means I think you are a smart enough man to identify someone before you run them through. What keeps you up at this hour?”

D’Artagnan shrugged noncommittally. “Couldn’t sleep,” was all he said.

“His Majesty told me of your little adventure with him. It exhausted him. Surely, you are tired, as well.”

D’Artagnan just wanted to be left alone. “Perhaps I have a lot on my mind,” he answered. “Why are _you_ up?”

“Like you, I also have much to think about. It is a dangerous journey we are taking.”

“The musketeers will keep you safe. You have nothing to fear from the Huguenots,” d’Artagnan assured him flatly. Normally, he would try to make that sound reassuring. But at the moment, he wasn’t enjoying the tone of the conversation and wanted to be left to his thoughts. He flexed his shoulders, trying to ease the sharper pain in his back that returned when he stopped moving.

Noticing, Baudin said, “All of France should be grateful to you for protecting our King.”

“It is a musketeer’s duty,” d’Artagnan answered. “We don’t expect gratitude.”

“Not even from the King himself?” Baudin probed. D’Artagnan said nothing. “I have heard what happened at the palace after the Dauphin’s christening,” Baudin said in a softer voice. “Louis believed he was bestowing a great honor on you by allowing you to kill Bruno LeMaître. When you refused, rightly or wrongly, he turned on you.”

D’Artagnan remained silent, again shifting under his cloak.

Then Baudin asked, “Why _did_ you refuse his honor?”

D’Artagnan quirked his mouth. He wished people would stop asking him the question that he was continuing to ask himself. He answered, his voice low, “As I said at the time, I am a soldier, not an executioner.”

Baudin seemed to chew on the young man’s response. “And yet your loyalty to the King would require you to carry out his wishes.” When d’Artagnan did not answer, he announced, “As his subject, I believe Louis is infallible. As his friend, I told him he was wrong.” D’Artagnan met his eyes, but didn’t speak. “You did well to protect the King,” Baudin continued. “You put his life before yours, allowed yourself to be punished for him. These are no small feats, and yet he persists in questioning your loyalties.”

“What do you want, Baudin?” d’Artagnan finally spat out.

“Just to let you know that I am on your side, d’Artagnan. I believe you are a man of strong principles and strong faith. And I do not question your devotion to France.”

“And to our King?” d’Artagnan couldn’t help but ask.

Baudin nodded. _“And_ to Louis.” He shook his head, a gesture of dismay. “I only wish he were worthy of the loyalty you offer him.”

“I’m going to bed,” d’Artagnan announced, done with this unusual conversation. He brushed past Baudin and headed down the hill. “You’d better, too. There’s a long day of riding ahead of us.”

D’Artagnan lay himself back down near the dwindling fire, trying to cushion his still-sore body from the hard ground. He drew his cloak up around his shoulders, and stayed awake thinking until exhaustion and discomfort offered the relief of oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which d'Artagnan confesses to Aramis, and the Inseparables consider possibilities.

Thanks so much everyone for your kudos, follows, favorites and especially your reviews! It’s so good to hear what’s in people’s heads, what you think is coming… and what you think of what you read!

If the language is a little flowery, do forgive me—I am deep in the middle of _Twenty Years After,_ and the beauty of Dumas’s language is wonderful… also, the “making up” scene among these wonderful friends actually made me remark on FB about how important caring about characters is. I hope you care about them when you read my writings!

Have a great day, all!

* TM * TM * TM *

Another day passed, the party rising early in the day and heading out in the cool air at a pace that would allow their horses maximum travel distance during the daylight hours. D’Artagnan had already been up for some time when the other musketeers awakened, and it was with silent acknowledgement that he gathered his cloak about him, helped ensure the final embers were extinguished at the campsite, and mounted his steed for the day’s journey. He met Aramis’s probing eyes with his own bleary ones, but thankfully, something in his gaze stopped the sharp-eyed medic from doing anything but nodding his morning greeting, and they were off.

As the sun started its descent, and with d’Artagnan having eaten little throughout the day, Aramis drew his horse up alongside the Gascon, watching with concern as the young man rode in the front of the group, distracted by nothing but his own thoughts, and looking to any who took the time to observe as though he would soon fall from his horse in weariness. Aramis frowned when his approach did not rate any notice by their youngest, and he pulled in even closer to speak.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis prodded, hoping to get his companion’s attention. It had been like this yesterday, he thought, but this time there was something different. D’Artagnan didn’t answer; his eyelids seemed to be drooping. _“D’Artagnan,”_ he repeated, more strongly.

The young man blinked himself into alertness and looked at his friend. “I apologize,” he said. “I was far away.”

Aramis nodded. “Yes, I can see. How have you fared today?”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan replied automatically. 

“You appear quite tired,” Aramis pointed out. “If you were in pain last night, you should have awakened me; there was more mixture I could have offered you.”

 _“Non, merci,”_ d’Artagnan said with a shake of his head. “Poison is not my drink of choice.” Aramis grinned tolerantly. “No, I just didn’t sleep well. There is much to think about, and it kept me awake.”

“You are concerned about going to Vassy?”

“Not really,” d’Artagnan said. 

“Then what?” Aramis asked. D’Artagnan didn’t reply. “Pepin? The King?” Again, d’Artagnan offered nothing. “D’Artagnan,” Aramis offered, “you must not doubt yourself because of what happened after the Dauphin’s christening. The King was frightened, and you were his protector. He knew he could count on you to keep him safe. You proved that in your ordeal with LeMaître and his bandits. He would have feared LeMaître’s brother would continue to be a threat and immediately turned to his champion to save him once again.”

“And I failed,” d’Artagnan concluded bitterly.

“No, my friend, you did not. What you said to him was correct. You are not an executioner; you are a soldier.”

“And Louis is my King. I had no trouble killing the man who handed us over to LeMaître. I saw the look in your eye, Aramis; I know you questioned how I asked for that privilege to be mine. Why, then, could I not follow the direction of my sovereign and kill the man who helped keep us there?”

Aramis thought for a moment. “You have a heart, d’Artagnan, that has not been hardened by your trials. You have a mind that looks for nobility and uprightness in your companions and in your King. That is not a bad thing; unfortunately, it is not always there. I fear you are hurt when you discover it.”

D’Artagnan listened, then said softly, “Perhaps it is I who am out of step. The King is not the only one to question my reticence.”

Aramis frowned. “You place suspicion on yourself.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Yes.”

“And... others do as well?” Aramis pressed gently, narrowing his eyes. The silence that answered him told Aramis what he needed to know. “Who is it, d’Artagnan? Is it Rochefort?”

The young man shook his head. “Rochefort says I am misled by romantic notions; it is the King who questions my true intent.”

“Rochefort,” Aramis said, as though the word were a curse. “And he said this to you yesterday before the King despatched us with Baudin?”

Studying the path ahead of them intently, d’Artagnan nodded reluctantly.

“I should have known,” Aramis said, anger touching his voice.

“It is not just the King, or myself, who questions why I didn’t do the King’s bidding as would be expected of me,” d’Artagnan said, as though to dismiss his friend’s rising ire. “Baudin came to me last night and spoke of it as well.”

“What? Baudin?” asked Aramis, quite concerned. “When?”

“When everyone was asleep,” the Gascon said.

“What, he woke you to question your allegiance to His Majesty?” Aramis practically exclaimed. Then, realizing the proximity of his horse to the rest of the travelling band, he lowered his voice. “He woke you to interrogate you?”

“No, no,” d’Artagnan said. He shook his head, realizing that he now had to tell his comrade everything that had transpired. He had not intended to disclose it, but now that he was speaking of it, it was an unburdening of sorts, and perhaps he could reconcile his own unhappiness if he shared it with Aramis, as long as he swore the man to secrecy. “Aramis, you must keep what I tell you between us alone,” he said.

“D’Artagnan, if your honor is being questioned, I cannot promise that I can do that,” Aramis responded.

The Gascon smiled fondly. “Thank you for your loyalty,” he said. “But if that is the case, you must tell the others that I also question my position. I love France, and I love and serve the King, to the death. But I cannot deny that this incident and my reaction to it have made me question my abilities to do as I have promised.”

“I promise I will do my best for you, d’Artagnan,” Aramis declared. “That is all I can do.”

D’Artagnan nodded. It was enough; the need to confess his burden had become too strong to be worried about an honorable man’s promise. “I was awake and pacing in the wood last night, when Baudin approached to speak with me.”

Aramis’s thoughts immediately went to d’Artagnan’s injuries and the reasons for him being awake, but filed that away and bit his tongue, in case his friend thought twice about speaking and stopped.

“He said that as the King’s musketeer it would have been expected that I respond immediately when he offered me the execution of Bruno LeMaître as a reward for my bravery and loyalty. He wondered why I didn’t. A question I now constantly ask myself.” D’Artagnan paused, as though again pondering the issue. Then he added, “Then he said he told His Majesty that he was wrong to be angry with me when I declined.”

“Did he?” Aramis said, amazed.

“He said he was on my side,” d’Artagnan continued. “And that I was a trusted servant of France, and that my loyalty should not be in question.”

Aramis chewed on this revelation and said thoughtfully, “Perhaps he wants to make an ally of you.”

“Perhaps,” d’Artagnan agreed. “But it means the King is still upset with me. And when compared to the ease with which I killed Gus, although the King did not know about it, I can understand his reservations.”

“Whether His Majesty knew or not, Baudin’s question does not lead to the same conclusion as yours, or the King’s. If I were you, I would think more of his conclusion, than of King Louis’s.” D’Artagnan’s continued unhappy look touched the musketeer’s heart. “You judge yourself too harshly, my friend,” he said kindly, “and at the moment, you have too much time to think. We will arrive in Vassy the day after tomorrow; I suspect then, you will be too busy being a loyal servant of the King, to question whether or not you are worthy of that title. In the meantime, you will let me force a sleeping draught upon you tonight, so you’re refreshed for tomorrow’s travels. If you insist on hiding your discomfort, then _I’ll_ insist on making you sleep through it.”

D’Artagnan offered his friend a small, grateful smile, and they rode on.

* TM * TM * TM *

“We may have a problem with our Monsieur Baudin,” Aramis confided that night to the other Inseparables, once he was certain d’Artagnan had succumbed to the herbal concoction he had drawn up and practically forced down the Gascon’s throat, and when he was also certain Baudin was out of earshot.

“What’s that?” Porthos asked, sitting beside him near their horses and taking a bite of some dried meat they had brought along on the journey. He offered a piece to Athos, who shook his head as he joined them, then to Aramis, who took it but did not eat it. Perhaps tomorrow they’d end the day near an inn, where they could get a hot meal cooked by someone more skilled than they.

“It seems the King carried his anger toward our youngest longer than just after the christening. He spoke of it to Baudin.”

“You mean he gossiped to his mate,” Porthos rephrased.

“Gossip he is happy to repeat,” Athos declared. “He mentioned it to me yesterday.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “And he approached d’Artagnan about the incident last night. But he told d’Artagnan that the King was wrong.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Porthos said, taking a pull of the meat. “But nice guys who are best friends of the King of France don’t usually talk The King down to his protectors.”

“Exactly,” said Aramis.

“What are you thinking?” Athos asked him.

“I think it’s possible Monsieur Baudin is working with someone to undermine d’Artagnan to the King.”

“Someone like Rochefort?” Athos guessed.

“Who else?” Aramis replied.

“What did the whelp say to him?” Porthos asked.

At this, Aramis paused. He remembered d’Artagnan’s wish to keep his own doubts and fears to himself, and didn’t see any way that revealing the Gascon’s secret would help. “He was measured in his words. It is the privilege and right of the King to ask for whatever he wants.”

Athos nodded. “A wise response.” He looked squarely at the others. “If this is an attack, we must protect our brother. Much as he tries to deny it, he leads with his heart in more than just his swordplay.”

“Agreed,” Porthos said with a nod. 

Aramis nodded, thinking back to his conversation with the Gascon. “Agreed. We must do all we can.” He considered, then added, “If Rochefort is behind this, it could be more than just d’Artagnan he’s aiming for.”

“That’s true,” Athos acknowledged. “But at the moment my concern is d’Artagnan. The King’s words wounded him after he’d suffered so much to safeguard him. And I think that, along with his youth, puts him at a disadvantage.”

Porthos growled, “If Rochefort or Baudin touches a hair on that kid’s head, they won’t live to see the sun rise.”

Aramis smiled softly and laid a hand on his comrade’s arm. “Steady, friend. We will do what we must... discreetly.” Porthos frowned. “We don’t want to tip off our adversaries, do we.”

“Stealth isn’t my strong point,” Porthos grumbled.

“No. But your heart is. You will do right by our friend,” Aramis assured him. He stood up. “Come. Let’s get some sleep. We have a long day’s riding tomorrow.”

“I’ll ride with Baudin,” Porthos volunteered. His friends looked at him askance, as they rose. “It’s my turn!” the large man said in defense of himself. “I’m sick of being in the back.”

“There’s no one I’d rather have at my back,” Athos replied.

Porthos took the compliment with a nod, and headed to his spot by the fire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things heat up for our intrepid travelers.

Sorry for the delay. My son has just left for overseas (and as I type this is still 2000 km away from land), and I needed to concentrate on him first!  
Meantime I have watched the amazing finale to season 2, and will wait with great impatience for season 3!  
May I thank all of you who were so kind to comment on my story, and who left kudos and have favorited, and who are following. All feedback is appreciated but of course reviews are a special kind of love, even if they are just a few words!  
Chapter 6 is up… now!

* TM * TM * TM *

“Blast.” The musketeers looked at Baudin when he cursed, immediately on their guard. “My horse has thrown a shoe,” he explained as his halted his mount. “I don’t know how long ago, but there’s definitely a problem now.”

The others stopped and gathered around. “It will have to be fixed,” Athos said. “I’ll go ahead and see if there’s an inn and a blacksmith nearby.”

“I’ll come with you,” d’Artagnan offered. 

“I’ll have a look at the horse and see how I can keep it going,” Porthos said. “Otherwise we’ll have to find another solution. I’m not a two-rider-per-horse enthusiast.”

“This is a fairly secluded area,” Aramis remarked; “I’ll keep watch on our charge.”

Athos nodded. “All right,” he said. “As soon as we find anything, we’ll come back. We won’t veer from this road. Catch up if you can manage it.” He looked at the Gascon and signalled their departure, and the two of them moved on, leaving their friends behind as Baudin dismounted.

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos and d’Artagnan rode on steadily but in no hurry, as they knew the others would be working, and resting the horses with a slower pace seemed wise. They kept watch around them, as Aramis had correctly noted that this was a secluded and wooded area, with plenty of places for unfriendlies to jump out at them. Only the occasional nod between the two musketeers was exchanged to let each other know that everything seemed peaceful. Thankfully, it stayed quiet.

Eventually, the narrow path they were travelling was blocked by an old cart that looked like it had seen better days. A grey-haired man was beside it, drinking from a water skin and wiping his brow. The pair stopped, and Athos called down to him.

“Do you need help, Monsieur?”

The older man looked up at them with a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of bad luck. This wagon isn’t what it used to be, and when my horse got spooked and broke into a run, I lost a wheel.”

D’Artagnan dismounted and went over to the cart. The man nodded toward the front of the wagon, and when d’Artagnan passed him, he discovered that one of the large wooden wheels was splintered, with one section snapped off. He closed his eyes and shook his head, thinking fleetingly that if he had allowed this to happen on his family farm, his father would have wanted to thrash him. He looked back to Athos. “He’s right. This isn’t happening here.” 

“What spooked your horse?” Athos asked, with a knowingly glance at d’Artagnan. The Gascon understood.

“I don’t know, sir,” said the man. “Perhaps an animal, perhaps the wind. I shall have to unhitch the horse and go home, then come back with help for the cart.”

Athos nodded. “May we ask if there’s a blacksmith in the vicinity; one of our party’s horses has thrown a shoe.”

“About three leagues down the road, sir. And a fine one, I might add. I see your pauldrons. Are you soldiers?"

“We are. The King’s musketeers,” Athos replied.

“Why are the King’s musketeers are so far away from Paris?”

Athos answered, “His Majesty rules all of France, not just Paris. Sometimes, we are needed elsewhere.”

“Godspeed, musketeers.”

“We thank you for your assistance, and we wish you well on your travels, sir.”

D’Artagnan glanced at the cart, smiled at the man, and then moved to head back to his own horse so they could continue their journey. As he began to mount, the man tumbled to the ground. D’Artagnan immediately ran to his aid.

“What is it, Monsieur? What ails you?” he asked, pulling the man up from the path and into his arms.

“Nothing... nothing... just... fainted from the exertion,” the traveller gasped. “I worked so hard to try and get the wagon...”

“Never mind that. Never mind,” d’Artagnan said. He picked up the water skin that man had been using and shook it. It was empty. He looked over to Athos, who was already dismounting. “Athos, he needs water.”

Athos grabbed a water skin and handed it to d’Artagnan. “Thank you, musketeers,” the man said breathily. “I’m just an old fool,” he said. D’Artagnan sat the man up and helped him lean against the cart. “It is so hot today.”

“Oui, Monsieur. So much so that we have left off our cloaks for our journey today. I am not certain the King would approve.” D’Artagnan smiled when he saw the older man’s lips curve up in amusement. “What is your name?” he asked, trying to keep him alert.

“I am Gaillard,” he responded.

“Gaillard,” d’Artagnan repeated. “I am d’Artagnan.”

“D’Artagnan... a fine name,” Gaillard said with a minute nod. “I will be all right now... you must move on.”

D’Artagnan looked at Athos, who, knowing what his companion was thinking, nodded assent. “Nonsense,” d’Artagnan said to the man. “You are not strong enough to do this on your own. You will ride with me, and direct me to your farm. Athos will guard your cart and horse.”

“God bless you, d’Artagnan of the King’s musketeers,” said the man, with a pat to the young man’s cheek.

D’Artagnan smiled kindly. “Let’s get you up.” He helped Gaillard to stand, then made sure he was able to get to the horse before turning to his companion. “I’ll get him home and come right back. Then we can get the blacksmith.”

Athos nodded. “Be careful,” he said.

D’Artagnan simply nodded, then helped Gaillard mount his horse. Once he was certain the man was steady and holding the horn of the saddle, he pulled himself up behind him. “I’ll keep you steady, Monsieur. Just hold on if you can.”

“You are in safe hands with d’Artagnan, Monsieur Gaillard,” Athos said to him. “And I assure you your wagon and horse will be secure with me.”

“Merci, messieurs,” Gaillard replied with a faint smile. “One can always expect the King’s men to be gracious.”

D’Artagnan threw an indulgently amused look at Athos, then spurred his horse to start at a careful pace away from the wagon along the winding path.

Athos watched them until they were out of sight—not a long distance, as the road curved only a hundred feet from where he stood. Then he turned back to his own horse to saddle up, but a quick sound stopped him. Uncertain what it was that he had heard, he stood very still and listened again, but he heard nothing. His instincts now on full alert, he very carefully and slowly moved back from his horse just enough to have his hands free to draw his sword or his blunderbuss, the latter of which he briefly gave thanks for having the foresight to always keep ready for firing.

He began to turn so his horse was at his back when he saw a great amount of rustling in the brush around them, and suddenly four men emerged, closing in on him at great speed. _“D’Artagnan!”_ Athos roared as he drew his sword and pulled out his gun.

And he began the fight of his life.

* TM * TM * TM *

The shout from his friend and mentor reached d’Artagnan’s ears and he immediately stopped his horse and listened. Then it came again.

_“D’Artagnan!”_

_“Athos!”_

Without a second's hesitation, d’Artagnan made to turn his horse around and head back at full speed. As he began to tighten his grip around Gaillard, he was surprised to find the older man had twisted around and was aiming his elbow toward d’Artagnan’s neck. D’Artagnan dodged but Gaillard completed the turn and, fitter than the Gascon had been led to believe, he grabbed at the musketeer’s shirt and pulled him forward, landing a strong blow on the back of his head, then another from underneath his jaw.

D’Artagnan gasped in pain and all at once realized this was an ambush, and that Athos was likely under attack as well. Desperate to get back to his fellow musketeer, he grappled for his assailant’s arm and the two of them tussled and soon after tumbled off the horse and onto the ground.

Dazed but not out of the game, d’Artagnan scrambled to find his feet while reaching for his sword to keep Gaillard at bay and make it back to Athos. The other man produced a blade from out of nowhere and took a broad swing toward him. D’Artagnan leaned back and nearly lost his footing, then recovered. As he drew his sword from its scabbard, he saw two more men come into sight from behind his opponent, and he moved to a stance that gave him a better chance of seeing all three men, while keeping his horse, which had thankfully not gone far after the initial struggle, at his back so he could scan the area without fear of being attacked from behind.

“Divide and conquer, eh?” d’Artagnan surmised, breathing heavily, his eyes darting from one to the other, while watching the woods to see if anyone else would appear in support of his attackers. “You think separating us will make us weaker?” One of the larger men came forward, sword drawn and ready to charge. 

“You are wrong!” D’Artagnan lunged as one of the men came too close. Swords clashed and the man flew past without his blade touching the Gascon. Gaillard moved in with another swipe, which d’Artagnan deflected. “We shall fight all the harder, knowing our brothers may _need us!”_

As the third man came in, d’Artagnan drew his pistol. He elbowed the hindquarters of his horse to urge it to move forward enough to force the other second man to divert his path of attack, while keeping Gaillard at a distance with his sword. He took less than a second to aim his gun at the third man, then fired, and the attacker cried out and fell back onto the ground. He turned toward the final two. “It won’t go any better for you!”

Gaillard came charging in, aiming at his chest. D’Artagnan flourished his sword to hold off the second assailant, then pointed it directly at Gaillard, who by then was so close that he could not avoid it. Now seriously wounded, Gaillard fell to his knees and dropped his blade. D’Artagnan kicked it well out of reach, looking without pity into the man’s eyes as they stared back at him, then reholstered his pistol as Gaillard collapsed for good. He turned to the final attacker.

“The best for last, musketeer,” the man said as they squared off, swords drawn and ready for battle.

“Who sent you?” d’Artagnan asked, making the first thrust. It missed, and the man stepped lightly away. _Never strike the first blow,_ he heard Athos saying in his head. _You will always miss, and your opponent will have the chance to catch you off balance._

As expected, the next thrust came from the assailant, and it was as forceful as it was well-timed. D’Artagnan was pulling back to parry when it came, without enough time to fully avoid it, and the blade sliced his upper left arm, making him cry out in frustration and pain. Determined, he thrust again, knowing deep down that he was not doing his best at the moment, thinking of Athos, who would probably be fighting a similar battle and hopefully coming off much better in it. The fleeting thought that he might not be spurred d’Artagnan on to refocus, and he shook his head and took a centering breath. As the next thrust came, he parried with all his strength and the bigger man’s sword was pushed upwards. As his and d’Artagnan’s arms intertwined, the Gascon reached for his _main gauche_ and drove it into his opponent’s stomach. 

For the briefest moment, the man continued the struggle with the swords, then, as though the air had been sucked out of him, he stopped, his eyes went to d’Artagnan’s, and his lips moved as though to speak, but no sound came forth. His arm sagged, and both swords came down. His eyes never leaving his assailant, d’Artagnan brushed the man’s weapon away with little effort, and then pushed the man away from himself, drawing his _main gauche_ out of his body. 

The man fell, and d’Artagnan knelt down at his side. “Who sent you?” he asked again.

The man only shook his head, and then he died. 

D’Artagnan sighed in frustration but wasted no time. He grabbed the sword that had been tossed nearby, then saddled his horse and took off to head back to Athos. Though he considered the musketeer the far better swordsman, he worried that there were even more men attacking him than d’Artagnan.

_“Athos!”_ he cried, hoping his friend could hear him.

He was back at the cart within minutes, the first sight facing him being the bodies of two unknown men on the ground. Athos was standing on the cart, flourishing his sword and his _main gauche,_ three men trying at various points to mount the wagon and failing. But d’Artagnan could see Athos’s energy was starting to flag, and he immediately leapt from his horse and ran after the man closest to him to engage him.

“Took you long enough!” Athos shouted down as he continued with the other two men.

D’Artagnan’s sword clashed with the attacker’s with a spark. “I didn’t know you missed me!” he called back, lunging forward. He made good with the thrust, stabbing the man in the thigh. When the man tried to rise and continue fighting, he grabbed his pistol from its holster and hit the man on the head, knocking him senseless.

One of the two remaining men turned now to d’Artagnan, and the pair faced off fiercely, the Gascon’s opponent attacking with a renewed vigor. As though bolstered by the presence of his mentor, d’Artagnan felt in control and fenced well, keeping one eye on his foe and the other on Athos. After a couple of minutes of dynamic engagement, d’Artagnan’s opponent finally lost his footing, and his weapon, and the musketeer brought his sword down to the man’s neck.

“Who sent you?” he hissed.

The unknown just said back, “Rot in hell, musketeer.”

D’Artagnan’s reply was a sword thrust through his gut. Now breathing hard and determined to help Athos with his stubbornly persistent attacker, d’Artagnan twirled around to join in the fray, and instead came face to face with a pistol. When he raised his head to see who was aiming it at him, he looked into the eyes of Antoine Baudin.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much for all the feedback. Favorites and kudos and follows are so nice, and reviews are OXYGEN!
> 
> * TM * TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened, and for the briefest second he was sure his heart stopped.

_“Move!”_ Baudin shouted. 

D’Artagnan immediately stepped to the left, and Baudin fired. An anguished cry from behind made the musketeer turn around to see an assailant he hadn’t even been aware of breathing his last. Stunned, he turned back to see Aramis and Porthos fighting their way out from the trees, flushing out those who remained, with Porthos making quick work of his own opponent, and Aramis taking on yet another with ease. D’Artagnan raced over to help Athos, who was about to face a second and a third foe, and soon the ground around them was littered with nothing but the wounded and dead. D’Artagnan, determined, went to each slain man to see if there was anyone who could tell a final tale. He came across the man whom he had struck in the head after stabbing him in the leg. 

“What do we do with this one?” he asked as the others gathered around.

Porthos was the first to reach him. “He’s alive?”

“I hit him with my pistol.”

“We should take him with us,” Baudin suggested. “If we can’t get him to talk ourselves, we can always get the authorities to persuade him.”

The others nodded agreement. “Well, that attack was _almost_ unexpected,” Athos observed dryly.

“Why did they target us—that old man, he was waiting for us specifically,” d’Artagnan panted, hands on hips and still breathing heavily. His anger at his natural kindness being taken advantage of was palpable.

Aramis, Porthos, and Baudin looked at him and Athos questioningly. “One of the group waited with this broken-down cart claiming to need help. When he fainted, or so we thought, d’Artagnan offered to take him back to his home, while I guarded his horse and merchandise. It was when we were separated that they attacked.” He turned to d’Artagnan. “It was your delay in returning that made me realize Gaillard was part of the plot.”

D’Artagnan nodded and looked down at the ground, raising his hand to the back of his head where Gaillard had struck him much harder than he’d thought the man capable of. He grimaced when he hit a sore spot.

“You’re hurt,” Athos said with a frown.

“And you’re bleeding,” Porthos added, now seeing the wound on the lad’s arm.

Aramis moved in immediately. D’Artagnan lowered his arm and flinched away. “I’m fine,” he said.

Aramis shook his head at the Gascon’s typical stubbornness. “I’ll decide that.”

D’Artagnan sighed and let Aramis lead him over near the wagon to sit on a nearby fallen tree trunk. “I’d have been a lot more than bleeding if Baudin hadn’t stepped in,” d’Artagnan said. “I didn’t even know that man was there.”

“You can thank my horse,” Baudin said. “If it hadn’t lost a back shoe, we wouldn’t have had to stop. Porthos removed the other back shoe and I moved the horse onto softer ground, off the road. It was then that I came across the brigands hiding in the underbrush, waiting to join the fray. Thankfully, they didn’t discover me, and I returned to Porthos and Aramis.”

“The others were already having a go at you two by the time Aramis and I got there,” Porthos said. “So we drove the rest of them out.”

“Well, we’re grateful,” Athos told him. 

“Nothing too serious,” Aramis announced to the others from his place by d’Artagnan’s side. “His arm needs wrapping, and his head is sore—but it’s hard, so it should be fine.” He looked from Athos to d’Artagnan. “I suspect you two probably need a rest.”

“There’s a blacksmith about three leagues away, if you can believe one of our attackers; there would likely be lodgings nearby where we can stop for the night.”

“I don’t need to stop,” d’Artagnan said, sounding annoyed.

Aramis nodded. “Well, we’re heading that way anyway. It won’t hurt to go there and relax while Baudin’s horse is tended to.” He watched as, in spite of himself, d’Artagnan tenderly rubbed underneath his jaw. “It will bruise,” Aramis advised softly. “It is already swollen. Can you ride?”

D’Artagnan dropped his hand, still angry with himself about falling into Gaillard’s trap. “Of course,” he answered. “Deal with my arm later; if we’re near an inn we can deal with it over a meal. If not, we’ll still have made progress.” He stood up and moved to his horse, which had wandered over toward the trees a few yards away from them, and adjusted the saddle.

“He punishes himself for his kindness to the old man,” Athos observed in a low voice to the others, as Aramis returned to the group. He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“He’s judging himself,” Porthos surmised. “Everything he does, he’s thinking about whether he’s letting everyone down.”

“The damage of hastily spoken words,” Athos agreed, thinking of the King’s reprimand. He glanced at Baudin but said nothing, unsure of what would get back to Louis. He watched as their youngest mounted his horse with some difficulty, then turned his horse away as though to ride on, waiting quietly for the others to move as well.

Aramis sighed thoughtfully. “The healing always takes longer to happen than the wound takes to create.”

* TM * TM * TM *

As it turned out, Gaillard had not been lying about the blacksmith, and also as it turned out, Athos was right in his prediction about there being lodgings nearby, so the travelers, weary and with their prisoner tied up and in tow on Porthos’s horse, decided to stay for the night. Baudin brought his horse to be re-shoed, while Porthos unloaded the now-awake-but-groggy prisoner and looked for an out-of-the-way place to keep him. Athos unburdened the other horses, and Aramis tended to d’Artagnan in one of the rooms.

“You should be helping Porthos,” d’Artagnan protested without much conviction.

“Porthos is more than capable of handling one man on his own,” Aramis said knowingly. “He’d consider it an insult if I told him he needed my assistance. How’s your jaw?” 

D’Artagnan jerked his head away from Aramis’s probing hand. His jaw was throbbing, as was his head, his arm, and just about every other part of him. But he merely said, “Fine.”

With a look that told d’Artagnan he didn’t believe it, Aramis pointed to the bed. D’Artagnan sat down heavily. Though he wanted to resist, he didn’t have the energy, and so he allowed Aramis to help him remove his doublet and his shirt. The medic looked him over, noting the Gascon was trying to avoid meeting his eye. 

“Your arm won’t need stitching,” Aramis said, sensing the young musketeer needed a boost. “But your shirt will. If you ask him nicely, Porthos might grace you with some of his fine needlework.”

“I’m sure his hands are full enough without doing my sewing,” d’Artagnan replied, trying to but not quite succeeding at cheering up. 

Aramis dug through his pack on the table nearby to find the dressings. “Perhaps,” he answered, pulling out the things he needed to wrap the arm. “But he needs to keep in practice.” He turned back to d’Artagnan, seeing the tiredness in the boy’s eyes, and began to tend to the wound. His skilled hands made quick work of it, then he quickly put together an herbal drink. “Drink this,” he said, holding out the cup.

D’Artagnan made a face. “It’s foul,” he said with a sniff.

“It’s healing,” Aramis countered. He continued holding out the cup. After a moment, d’Artagnan sighed his resignation and took it, making a face as he tipped the contents down his throat.

“It’s foul,” he repeated, hoarsely.

Aramis ignored the complaint and put the cup back on the table. “You need to rest now, d’Artagnan,” he said, watching his friend’s eyelids drooping.

“There’s too much for us to do,” d’Artagnan replied. “I want to talk to that prisoner—”

“Porthos can handle that, too,” Aramis answered, coming back to guide his feet up onto the mattress.

At this, d’Artagnan protested. “Aramis, please—” He stopped, gasping and sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, as in his attempts to get the Gascon to lie down, Aramis gripped his right arm.

Aramis immediately drew his hand back and looked critically at the tender area. “I thought that was getting better,” he said, concerned.

“It _was_ getting better,” d’Artagnan said. “Until I—” He cut himself off.

“Until you what?” Aramis asked. 

D’Artagnan’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Fell off my horse,” he mumbled.

"Until you _what?”_ Aramis repeated, disbelieving.

“Until I fell off my horse,” d’Artagnan repeated, more loudly. Aramis rolled his eyes. “The old man attacked me while we were still riding. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Aramis shook his head, trying to calm his renewed sense of outrage at the whole attack. There was no point in letting it anger him now. He considered helping Porthos deal with their prisoner himself later on. “Of course you didn’t,” he admitted with a sigh. He shook his head. “Leave your shirt off and lie back; I’ll make a poultice to draw out the pain.” D’Artagnan obeyed easily, which confirmed to Aramis that the youth was feeling even worse than he was letting on, and his skilled hands worked quickly to prepare what was needed. He chattered as he worked, then headed back to his patient. “Now, if you leave this on for awhile, you can head down and have something to—”

Aramis stopped when he looked at d’Artagnan’s face and discovered the young man was asleep. With a tolerant smile, he applied the poultice, then drew a sheet up over his legs and chest, and headed downstairs to find the others.

* TM * TM * TM *

“He ain’t talking,” Porthos said, as he, Aramis, Athos, and Baudin sat eating stew and bread. “That don’t sit well with me.”

“Nor with me,” Athos agreed. 

Aramis thought of their youngest, still upstairs asleep. “If he hasn’t spoken by the time d’Artagnan awakens, he may find himself with much more than a wounded leg.” Athos looked at him, curious. “He’s still very angry at his giving nature being taken advantage of,” Aramis explained.

“He’ll get used to that,” Athos replied.

“Or he’ll stop having good will,” Baudin proposed. “There’s only so hard a man can be battered before he moves on.”

Porthos shook his head. “You don’t know our d’Artagnan,” he said. “That trust and good nature is part of who he is. It won’t change. ‘Least I hope it doesn’t.”

“Indeed,” Athos said with a nod. “It may be what saves us all.”

Baudin accepted the words of the musketeers with a small nod. “Perhaps it’s the uniforms that are putting off our prisoner,” he suggested, turning the conversation. “You said, Athos, that these men made no secret of the fact that they despised musketeers.”

Athos nodded.

“Perhaps I should go to him, see what I can extract. After all, he’s never seen me. He wouldn’t know I’m connected with you in any way at all. And I’m not wearing a musketeer’s pauldron or tunic.”

The Inseparables considered. “It sounds like a reasonable proposition,” Athos said eventually. 

“He’s tied up about two hundred yards behind the barn in an old shed,” Porthos said. “Looks like it hasn’t been used in months. Years.”

Baudin nodded.

“He won’t shout,” Porthos added. “I gagged him good.” He tilted his head toward Aramis. “And if I do say so myself, I did a decent job bandaging his leg.” Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Can’t tell us anything if he bleeds to death.”

“Nice to see you using your head,” Aramis praised him. Porthos narrowed his eyes, knowing that his friend’s compliment was a good-natured dig of sorts, if only he could find it. Aramis raised his eyebrows to show his innocence. Porthos grinned softly and shook his head.

“I’m sure I can find my way,” Baudin said. He stood up, finishing his wine and putting the cup on the table. “I’ll go now, and tell you what I find out.”

* TM * TM * TM *

It was a bleary-eyed d’Artagnan who came down the stairs of the inn to the eating area a short time later. He blinked owlishly at the musketeers, who were finishing their meal and waiting for Baudin to return. “You put something in those herbs that made me sleep,” he accused Aramis with no venom, as the medic moved aside to make room for the Gascon to sit.

“Or maybe you were just tired and fell asleep,” Aramis answered. “Eat. There is still stew to be had, and bread.”

D’Artagnan reached for the hunk of bread Athos held out to him, and when a bowl of stew was placed before him he dug in ravenously. “What did we get out of our bandit?” he asked in between bites.

Porthos scowled. “Nothing yet. Baudin thinks the uniform puts him off.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Aramis quipped.

“I’ll get him to talk,” d’Artagnan said, starting to rise.

A firm hand on his arm from across the table stopped him in his tracks. “Leave it,” Athos said. 

D’Artagnan looked at the musketeer and frowned. “Your interrogation methods may leave a bit to be desired,” Athos declared. As d’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, he added, “You have little patience when you are angry. A dead prisoner can tell you nothing.”

D’Artagnan said nothing, but heaved a couple of breaths, then sat down. Athos released his arm. “Baudin has just gone to see what he can get out of him. If he fails, then we may need to take a turn.”

D’Artagnan let his eyes flit from one of his friends to the other, seeing their agreement on their faces. With a curt nod, he grabbed his bread and resumed eating. They all looked up when Baudin burst into the room.

“He’s escaped.”

“What?” d’Artagnan practically shouted. This time when he stood up, no one stopped him.

“I found my way to the shed Porthos told me about. When I got there, I found the ropes, but the man was gone. I ran out to see if I could find him, but as it is getting darker, and I had no idea how long he’d been gone, it was useless.”

“We have to try and find him,” d’Artagnan announced. Porthos stood up. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

The musketeers and Baudin raced up to the shed with Porthos in the lead. D’Artagnan ripped the door open and ran inside, and, seeing the ropes on the ground, he picked them up. “They’ve been cut,” he announced bitterly. “Someone helped him escape.”

Athos shook his head as he moved in from looking around outside the door. “He’s long gone by now. If someone helped him, they won’t likely be stupid enough to be on foot.”

D’Artagnan threw the ropes on the ground with a sound of disgust. Aramis came to him, thinking to put a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder and then thinking better of it. It felt awkward not to soothe his brother’s feelings in a tactile way. “Wherever he came from, he will serve as a warning that we are not to be trifled with,” he said instead. 

“I’m guessing he came from Vassy, or near to it,” Porthos put in. “Trying to tell us we’re not welcome.”

“I agree, but that doesn’t bode well for our visit,” Baudin said with a nod. “Let’s hope they’re more civilized when we arrive tomorrow. It would be difficult for you to go into Vassy in disguise.”

“I don’t cover the fact that I’m a musketeer,” d’Artagnan fumed, his eyes flashing. _“Ever.”_

“I think he was trying to lighten the mood a little, my friend,” Aramis said softly. 

The fire in d’Artagnan’s eyes dimmed. “Of course,” he said faintly. “Sorry.”

Baudin nodded. “We are all angry, d’Artagnan,” he said. “Perhaps there will be answers in Vassy. But most of all, I am hoping for understanding there.”

“We’re not here to create conflict,” Athos agreed. His eyes on d’Artagnan, he said to them all, “Come. Let us retire. If this is indeed waiting for us in Vassy, we will need to make sure we are well-rested.”

“D’Artagnan, you and I are roommates for the night,” Aramis announced.

As the Gascon was about to protest, Athos said, “And Porthos and I shall have you with us, Baudin. You are the one we are protecting, after all. After this, we will not take a chance on anyone being alone.” He started heading out of the shed, knowing the others would follow. “Porthos, you get first watch,” he said over his shoulder.

“Of course I do,” the burly musketeer replied, falling into step. “’Cause the sheets aren’t cool for whoever has _first.”_

“Since when has that bothered you?” Aramis asked, coming up alongside him when he was certain d’Artagnan was coming. 

“I’ve got very delicate skin, you know,” Porthos replied mischievously. “I could get heat rash.”

Aramis nodded. “I’ll put together a nice cream for you to help with that,” he said with a wink toward d’Artagnan.

Their youngest just shook his head tolerantly, accepted that he would be fussed over for the night, and followed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait... lots of that pesky real life stuff!  
> Things take a turn for the boys now, and they have to figure out who their friends are... and who they aren't!
> 
> Reviews are way more than welcome!

“I assume you have a contact,” Athos said to Baudin the next day, as the travelers came over a hill and within view of their destination.

“Pierre Moreaux. He is the leader of this faction, and the one who has been making all the noise. I am to meet with him tonight,” Baudin answered.

D’Artagnan glanced around him with some suspicion. “I wonder if those brigands from yesterday were part of our welcoming party.”

“If they were, I don’t like their hospitality,” Porthos muttered.

“I’ve been assured there will be no trouble,” Baudin told them.

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hope they keep their promises. But if they don’t, we are prepared.”

Cautiously the group advanced, and, reaching the edge of the populated area, they slowed, looking for any sign that there were unfriendlies waiting for them. Baudin turned to the others. “I should perhaps take the first steps into Vassy alone.”

“That’s not happening,” Athos said.

“Hear me out, Athos. I am here to foster trust and understanding between the King and his subjects. Riding in with an escort of musketeers armed to the teeth would hardly appear to be a mission of peace and reconciliation. I need to go alone.”

The musketeers exchanged looks, their ability for silent conversations serving them well. Each knew what the other was considering. In the end, it was Aramis who relayed their decision. “I will go with you, with d’Artagnan. Porthos and Athos will follow from a visible distance. Musketeers coming into Vassy on their own will inflame the situation just as much, if not more, than you going in with them. And Vassy has a history of not being a very... welcoming place after the events that took place here in our grandfathers’ time.”

Baudin nodded. “Very well,” he said. “But you must trust my instincts here. Not least because of those very events, you will make the people most uneasy.”

“Understood,” Aramis said. He glanced at d’Artagnan, who nodded to tell his friend that he knew of the massacre. The sharpshooter threw a look at Athos and Porthos. “Don’t be far behind.”

Porthos grunted, unhappy not to be going in first. “We won’t.”

Baudin urged his horse ahead, and Aramis and d’Artagnan fell into line a few lengths behind him, spreading out to be able to see far out to either side. Porthos and Athos moved their horses together and waited before starting off as well.

The musketeers watched carefully as the approach brought some people’s work to a halt, and they turned to look at the new arrivals with curiosity and some suspicion. As the crowd grew bigger, Baudin stopped, prompting Aramis and d’Artagnan to do the same when they reached his side, and he called out.

“I am Antoine Baudin. I have been sent by King Louis the Thirteenth to discuss matters peacefully with Pierre Moreaux. These gentlemen,” he announced, nodding briefly toward his escorts, “musketeers of His Majesty, come to ensure my safety in travel, and, indeed, have faced some perils on the journey here. I owe my wellbeing to them. They are also committed to peaceful talks between us.”

One man stepped forward. D’Artagnan and Aramis immediately became even more alert, as his brawn and his frown seemed to telegraph ill intent. “The King doesn’t have any interest in making things better for us,” he said. Jutting his chin out toward the musketeers, he added, “And musketeers aren’t welcome. Ever.”

D’Artagnan and Aramis threw each other a quick look. “We come only to help Monsieur Baudin,” Aramis said smoothly. “I assure you, my friends and I would like nothing more than to see this go well.”

“Well for who?” the man answered. 

“For everyone involved,” d’Artagnan replied. “Pierre Moreaux is expecting Monsieur Baudin. Is he here?”

“He’s here,” another villager said. “And Baudin can see him. Without you,” he added pointedly. “And without weapons.”

“I have no argument with you, sir,” Baudin said. “I am happy to be unarmed. I trust Monsieur Moreaux will be as well.”

“He’ll decide that for himself.”

It was at this moment that Athos and Porthos appeared behind the group. Seeing the crowd becoming more unsettled, Aramis spoke up. “For the moment, a place where we can tend to our horses and perhaps rinse off the dust of our travels would be greatly appreciated.” He offered a disarming smile, holding it in place until the two men who had talked to them seemed to relax even briefly.

“The inn’s just down the road,” the first man finally said. “You can lodge there. Blacksmith and stables next door. We’ll send for you when Moreaux is ready.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

The group passed through the crowd slowly, unthreateningly. Porthos and Athos had come up carefully behind the others, and all kept a close watch on the villagers as they made their way to the inn. After they arrived without incident, they dismounted and handed their horses to the waiting, curious stable hands, and then went inside the inn, following the raggedly-dressed innkeeper up the stairs, and making sure to keep Baudin in the middle of them in case there was any trouble. 

Two rooms were given to them, and this time d’Artagnan managed to share his space with Porthos, desperate to get away from the attentions of Aramis, who was still watching carefully for signs of anything unwell with their youngest. Baudin would room with Athos and Aramis. 

It was when the group had made their way downstairs to get something to eat and drink that one of the men who met them when they entered Vassy made an appearance. “Moreaux will see you now,” he said without preamble.

The musketeers exchanged looks as Baudin stood up. “I’m ready.”

As the soldiers made to join him, the man added, “Not you.”

“We have no intention of allowing Monsieur Baudin to meet with anyone unaccompanied,” Athos said.

Baudin started to protest. “Athos, I am happy to—”

“We have orders from His Majesty,” Athos cut him off. “At least one of us must be with you.”

The messenger frowned. “One,” he acquiesced. “And you’ll be watched.”

Baudin sighed, then looked at the four of them. “You,” he said with a nod toward d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan made to follow as Baudin and the villager left the inn. Porthos laid his hand on the Gascon’s arm. “We’ll be nearby,” he said. D’Artagnan nodded and departed, with the others not far behind.

The villager stopped in the front of a house a short distance from the inn, then turned and faced Baudin and d’Artagnan. “You’ll be searched,” he informed Baudin. And with a look at d’Artagnan, he added, “And you’ll be watched. Musketeers don’t scare us,” he said.

D’Artagnan said nothing, but mentally rechecked the placement of his weapons, hoping not to need them but not confident that he wouldn’t. Baudin submitted without complaint to being patted down, and asked, “What is your name, sir?”

“Thibault. But it is of no use to you. It is Moreaux whom you will have to answer to.”

Baudin smiled thinly. “I am merely extending a courtesy, Monsieur Thibault. I am hoping we will depart as friends.”

“Don’t count on it.” Thibault finished his pat down, then gave Baudin a small shove toward the door. “Go on.” Then he looked at d’Artagnan. “Inside,” he ordered pointedly. “You’ll have someone looking after you.”

D’Artagnan came forward so he was within inches of the man, and offered a small, almost baleful smile. “I’m honored,” he said in a low voice, looking straight into Thibault’s eyes. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his companions were not far away, and went into the house.

Moreaux, a tall, stocky man dressed plainly and as if ready for farming work, was waiting in the mostly empty front room. Standing near a bare table and two chairs, he watched as Baudin and d’Artagnan entered. Baudin moved to greet him, as Thibault and another, burlier man, clearly intended as a bodyguard for Moreaux, shepherded d’Artagnan to a corner of the small room, out of arm’s length of the table and Baudin. Absently trying to brush the men out of his way, the musketeer strained to keep Baudin in his sight and, by default, under his protection. He wasn’t sure if Thibault and the bodyguard were armed, or even if Moreaux himself was. All he knew was that the man he had been charged with protecting was not.

“Monsieur Moreaux,” Baudin greeted. “His Majesty King Louis sends his greetings and most sincere wishes for understanding.”

Moreaux looked Baudin up and down, then glanced over to where d’Artagnan was still shifting from foot to foot. “And he does this by sending musketeers to threaten us.”

“As I explained to Monsieur Thibault and the others as we came into town: the journey from Paris can be perilous, and the musketeers were sent to protect me, not to intimidate you. Our party was attacked by brigands only yesterday, and the musketeers fought valiantly in my defense so that I could make it here today.”

Moreaux’s eyes narrowed as he continued his examination of the Gascon. “You’ll forgive me when I say I believe the only good musketeer is a dead musketeer.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flashed in anger. He looked at the big man nearest him, the protector of this hater of musketeers, instantly even more on guard than he had been before. But aside from a smirk, the man didn’t move. D’Artagnan’s Gascon temper demanded that he say something in defense of his brothers, but his duty required him to say nothing. His chest heaving, and clenching his jaw so hard he nearly saw stars, he followed his duty.

“You’ll forgive me if I disagree,” Baudin said smoothly. “Monsieur Moreaux, His Majesty wants peace between the people of Vassy and the Crown. He fully supports the Edict of Nantes and the letters patent granting the Protestants _places de sûreté_ within France, for which His Majesty pays support from his own coffers.”

“The coffers of the poor and out of the tithes we must still pay to the Catholic Church. Louis fools no one with his _generosity_ ,” Moreaux replied. “We don’t want lip service any more. We don’t want to be limited to specific areas like slaves. We want to be able to worship everywhere. We want to follow our own beliefs, without fearing that any monarch or his musketeers can come at will and righteously slay us as heretics and pagans.”

Again, d’Artagnan’s temper flared. Yes, he knew that long ago, the Duc de Guise had ordered the killing of Huguenots who had been holding their own religious services in a barn that had served as their church. And yes, d’Artagnan served the King, who championed the official religion of France. But although he was Catholic himself, d’Artagnan could not find it within himself to justify such an event. So to put de Guise’s actions beside the honor and principles of the musketeers was too much for him to take. 

As if knowing the Gascon was about to protest in spite of himself, the big man beside him turned and put himself directly in front of him. D’Artagnan tensed and moved his hand instinctively toward the hilt of his sword but did not draw it. He looked the man in the eye, staring at him dangerously, waiting to calm down and equally anticipating being attacked. When the man backed down, albeit slowly, d’Artagnan’s hand moved away from his sword, and he looked back at Baudin.

The encounter clearly hadn’t gone unnoticed, with both Baudin and Moreaux watching them silently. D’Artagnan nodded once, curtly, at Baudin, then kept his eyes on the others in the room. 

“Like most Gascons, you can see that Monsieur d’Artagnan has a temper,” Baudin said with a tolerant smile. “I believe he feels insulted at the idea that he and his brothers would consider committing the same horrendous act as the Duc de Guise, especially being loyal to the King, who supports the Edict. Monsieur Moreaux, I believe you have little to fear from having the musketeers here.”

Moreaux stared at d’Artagnan for a moment, then said to Baudin, “Time will tell.”

The conversation turned to more pragmatic topics—how to continue discussions with more people involved, where these should take place, and who should be in charge of security. Only one or two more references were made to the presence of the musketeers, with Moreaux finally acknowledging the aggressive feelings of the people of Vassy, which would naturally give the King’s soldiers a sense of unease. In the end, it was decided that there would be one public gathering, where all the musketeers were allowed, followed by more meetings between Baudin and Moreaux, with one unarmed musketeer and one unarmed follower of Moreaux in attendance. When the meeting finished, Baudin offered a small bow, to which Moreaux shrugged.

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were waiting outside. “How did it go?” Athos asked softly, as Baudin led the way back to the inn.

“Let’s just say the people of Vassy have long memories, and none of the remembrances are good,” d’Artagnan replied grimly.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Athos said. “How was Baudin?”

“Charming, of course. Persuasive. There are going to be more meetings. Sometimes we’ll get to be armed... and sometimes we won’t.”

“I’m not sure that sounds so persuasive,” Athos countered.

“The suggestion was his. Moreaux wasn’t going to talk with him at all if we were there. Baudin convinced him it would be better for the people to see that musketeers can be peaceful and law-abiding,” d’Artagnan said with a note of sarcasm.

“You don’t sound pleased about that observation.”

“It was difficult to live up to, in there.”

“It may be even harder, tomorrow.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Porthos stirred in the darkness at the movement beside him and tried to roll over. A heavy, unmoving sleeper himself, he still intermittently found his slumber disturbed by the less peaceful Gascon when they ended up sharing a bed. A dream, perhaps a twinge of a memory, sometimes had d’Artagnan thrashing about in his sleep, his actions often punctuated by unintelligible sounds, or, occasionally, sharper cries. 

This time, though, there was just shifting around, and so Porthos let his brain fall back to thoughts of slumber. But the movement didn’t stop, and very quickly escalated, so Porthos muttered, “D’Artagnan. You’re dreaming, lad,” trying to be helpful.

An arm flew out and struck Porthos on the shoulder. Grunting, the musketeer said in a louder voice, “D’Artagnan. It’s a dream.”

The flailing continued, and now a sound. _“Mm!”_

Porthos sighed and sat up, thinking to soothe the younger man more directly. But as the noises got more frantic, and the movements wilder, Porthos blinked several times, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness more quickly, and when he was finally able to make out d’Artagnan’s silhouette by the sliver of moonlight coming in through the window, he discovered to his horror that the Gascon was not alone.

He was being suffocated with a pillow. D’Artagnan was flailing for his life.

The big musketeer leapt up, and in one swift motion, moved to the other side of the bed, gripped the assailant by the neck and the back of the shirt, and threw him off and away from d’Artagnan and out the window behind them. Without another thought for the attacker, he tried urgently to see his companion, and relief flooded through him when he heard d’Artagnan’s gasping, desperate breaths, and he saw the young man pulling himself up on the bed.

“You all right?” Porthos asked, beside himself.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan panted. Then, as though reading Porthos’s mind, he added, “Go.”

Porthos burst out of the room and raced down the stairs, calling for his friends as he passed their room next door, hoping they would rouse from their sleep. _“Athos! Aramis!”_ And then he kept going, taking the stairs two, three at a time, disturbing the other guests but not caring as he flew out of the inn and around the side to grab the person who had tried to kill d’Artagnan. 

When he got to the ground beneath their window, there was no one. Porthos turned around quickly, looking to see if anyone was running away. But it was dark and the area was silent. There was no trace of anyone. He looked up to the window; the distance was great, but not enough to kill someone if he was lucky enough to land well. Clearly, that had been the case here. He considered scouting the area, but decided against it, determined to keep a lookout when daylight came for anyone who might look like they’d taken a tumble out of a second-storey window in the night.

Porthos hurried back into the inn and upstairs, where he found more than one door open, and Athos, Aramis, and Baudin in the room with d’Artagnan. Someone had lit a lamp, and Aramis was sitting on the bed next to d’Artagnan, who looked dishevelled, sweat-drenched, and exhausted, but definitely still alive.

“Quite the attire for a midnight search,” Athos observed dryly. 

Porthos looked at himself, only then realizing that he had run out dressed only in his trousers and undershirt, and that he now stood before them barefoot and sweating. He offered a small grin, accepting Athos’s comment as a report that d’Artagnan was indeed safe and sound, if not a bit worse for wear. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone,” he said.

“It’s fortunate you weren’t your usual heavy sleeper, Porthos,” Aramis said as Porthos came around to inspect d’Artagnan for himself. “It likely saved d’Artagnan’s life.”

“I thought you were just having one of your dreams,” Porthos said to the Gascon.

D’Artagnan looked up at his friend, a weary smile crossing his face.

“What happened?” Porthos asked.

“I woke up. Not sure why—thought I must have heard a noise or something. Or maybe I thought it was your snoring. Whatever it was, I listened for a second or two, didn’t hear anything, and was going to go back to sleep when all of a sudden my pillow was yanked out from under me and... and that was it,” d’Artagnan said.

Aramis looked at him, then glanced his concern at the young man’s lack of emotion in the telling of his tale to the others. 

“Could this be about what happened in your meeting today?” Athos asked Baudin.

Baudin shook his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps indirectly. The people of Vassy are not pleased to have musketeers here. But I wouldn’t have thought someone would be so bold as to try and murder one in his bed—certainly not with another one right beside him.”

“Perhaps they’re not very smart,” Porthos surmised. He reached down and took d’Artagnan by the arm. “Come on, lad,” he said gently, as Aramis stood to allow the bigger man in. “You need to get some rest. Just lie back now. I’ll stay awake.”

“I’m not scared,” d’Artagnan said absently. But he let his friend guide him until he was reclining against the back of the bed.

“’Course you’re not,” Porthos agreed, pulling the sheet up across the Gascon’s chest. “But it’ll make me feel better.”

“All right,” d’Artagnan answered, not looking at anything in particular.

Porthos smiled and patted d’Artagnan’s arm, then straightened and looked at Aramis. Aramis raised his eyebrows, and the two of them joined Athos and Baudin near the door of the room.

“We were going to keep watch, but we were both tired so we decided that if there was danger, it was likely going to be in _your_ room,” Porthos said to the others. He glanced over at d’Artagnan, whose eyelids, though heavy, had not yet closed. “If I’d had any idea, I’d...”

“Your supposition should have been right, Porthos,” Athos told him. “We were the protectors, not the ones to needing protection. It’s not your fault. Now we know better.” Porthos nodded. “Aramis, is he all right?”

“He should be fine,” Aramis answered. “There doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage. I’d say he’s in a bit of shock, though, so we should keep him warm for awhile and make sure someone stays awake with him tonight in case he needs anything. He’ll probably be angry more than anything else in the morning, if I know our young friend.”

“I’ll stay up. I told him I would,” Porthos said.

“We’ll ask questions in the morning,” Athos decided. “In the meantime, the rest of us should get some sleep. It appears we’ll have to be more careful than we anticipated. And that means being rested enough to sense any approaching danger.”

Porthos settled himself on the bed next to d’Artagnan, who gave no indication that he even felt the movement of the mattress. “I’m here, brother,” he said softly.

“I’m not scared,” d’Artagnan said again in response, leaving his eyes still staring at nothing.

“I know you’re not,” Porthos answered.

The others moved toward the door to try and reclaim the rest of the night. “It’s not your fault, Porthos,” Aramis said.

“I know,” Porthos replied. 

No one was quite sure if he believed it or not.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things begin to heat up for our Gascon and for our plot...

Hi all, thanks for your continued feedback and interest. Things are going to start “heating up”… see if you can figure out what’s going on!

* TM * TM * TM *

Porthos opened his eyes when he felt a stirring beside him. About an hour after the excitement abated in the night, d’Artagnan had finally closed his eyes and slept deeply. Porthos, tired but protective, had wrapped his arm around the young man’s shoulders and pulled him in close, eventually letting the slow, steady breathing of his friend lull him into an unusually light slumber, a skill he had taught himself long ago in the Court of Miracles, which had never failed him, and which he could call up in a second, allowing him to get the rest he needed to function, without letting his guard down for even a second.

Now, he felt d’Artagnan pulling away from him, and as the morning light streamed into the room, he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, watching the lad rise from the bed and move to the basin on the table nearby, where he threw some water onto his face and the back of his neck, then grabbed his shirt and doublet, all with a purpose in his actions that made Porthos furrow his brow.

“What are you doing?” Porthos asked, his voice gravelly from little sleep and much worry.

D’Artagnan looked over at his friend when his head popped out from the shirt he’d pulled over it. “Good morning,” he said, reaching for his doublet.

“Good morning,” Porthos greeted. “Where are you in such a hurry to get to?”

“Big day today,” d’Artagnan said. “Breakfast and then a little talk with my friend Monsieur Moreaux.” 

“A little talk?” Porthos repeated, sitting up fully. “What do you have to talk about?”

D’Artagnan paused in his dress. “Nothing,” he said briefly. “Nothing. I mean the talks start today and I need to be there.” He picked up his boots and sat down on the hard chair near the table to pull them on.

“You don’t need to be there,” Porthos said gently.

D’Artagnan finished adjusting his first boot, then looked Porthos in the eye, understanding the unspoken concern. “I want to be,” he said steadily. His friend looked doubtful. “Porthos, I’m fine. Thank you... for last night. Thank you for saving my life.”

“I nearly didn’t make it in time,” the big man replied, shaking his head. 

D’Artagnan’s expression softened. “But you did,” he stressed softly. He went back to his boots. “And now I’m going back out there and showing whoever it was that organized that little visit that I’m not so easily stopped.” He looked up at Porthos and grinned. “Not when I have friends who can throw people out of windows for me.”

Porthos let an easy grin slide onto his face. “You’d have done it for me,” he said.

D’Artagnan’s smile grew wider. “But not with such grace... and such force.” He stood up. “Come on—let’s get something to eat. I have a feeling we’re going to need all our strength today.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Moreaux stepped up onto the platform that had been erected in the middle of the street for the joint appearance with Baudin. He walked up to d’Artagnan and said without preamble, “Baudin told me what happened last night. I’m sorry to hear it.”

D’Artagnan didn’t see anything that suggested regret in Moreaux’s face, or hear it in his tone. His dislike of the man couldn’t help but surface. He fought to keep it in check, but he was sure his low voice gave it away. “Are you?” he replied evenly. His brown eyes burning into Moreaux, he quoted darkly, “‘The only good musketeer, is a dead musketeer’?”

Moreaux met his look without responding, then after a moment averted his gaze and moved on to talk with his men. Athos, who had overheard the exchange from beside d’Artagnan, said, “I’m not certain this is a good idea.”

D’Artagnan threw a look his way, then brought his attention back to the growing crowd around them. While he knew Athos’s concern about the odds of four musketeers and one unarmed man against a village full people with less-than-honorable thoughts about their visitors was genuine, he couldn’t help but wonder how much of that concern was aimed at himself because of the attack last night. 

“I can handle it up here; you can join Porthos and Aramis roaming the crowd if you’re that worried,” he suggested.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Athos asked dryly.

D’Artagnan was grateful for the hint of humor in his mentor’s voice. “Never,” he said. 

Moreaux began by calling the crowd to order, and introducing Baudin to the people, who were moving closer and closer, prompting d’Artagnan and Athos to spread out to opposite sides of the platform. Looking out, they could see Porthos and Aramis slowly wending their way through the villagers, looking for any signs of insurgence.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Baudin announced when it was his turn. “We stand before you because we have faith in the goodness of the people of Vassy.” Biting his lip at the irony of Baudin’s statement, d’Artagnan looked over at Athos, who was pacing back and forth, and scanning the crowd non-stop. 

Moreaux continued, “I was just as apprehensive as you at first. But talking with Monsieur Baudin, I have come to believe that there may be real change possible. I have told him of our concerns. And he has assured me that the King is listening.”

“He sends his musketeers to talk,” someone shouted.

“With swords and pistols!” another man added.

“Which they have not raised!” Moreaux countered. “By contrast, we have shown them nothing but contempt.” He shook his head. “I admit I was reluctant when I was told the King wanted to send an envoy. And I was brought to anger at the mere sight of musketeers.” The crowd quieted as he continued. “But a grudging respect of the effort has come of it. And I stand here today asking for you to acquire the same.”

“Is it what _you_ want, Moreaux?” a woman called.

“It is,” he replied. “To counter any continuing concerns about the influence of the musketeers, I will choose two of you to sit with me as we continue to talk. And I promise you, you will be heard. In return, there will be no threats toward our visitors, whether they be musketeers or otherwise. Are we all agreed?”

The reluctant grumbling from the crowd was apparently enough to please Moreaux, who nodded. “Very well. I will choose my right hands this morning. In the meantime, consider these gentlemen— _all_ of them—our guests.”

The gathering was broken up, and Porthos and Aramis joined their friends up on the platform as Moreaux and Baudin stepped aside to talk with the few who remained. The musketeers kept Baudin in their sights, though out of earshot. “Well, wasn’t that cozy?” remarked Porthos.

All business, Athos asked, “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Aramis said with a shake of his head. “I didn’t hear anything that we could connect with the attack on d’Artagnan last night.”

“And no one was walking funny,” Porthos added. He shrugged. “Maybe they just didn’t come out this morning.”

“What did you think of Baudin and Moreaux’s little performance?” Aramis asked.

“Smoke and mirrors,” d’Artagnan said. “There’s more here than meets the eye.” He looked over to the other side of the platform, where Baudin and Moreaux were deep in conversation with a villager. “Much more.”

Athos nodded. “I agree. We were told to accompany Baudin because he might be in danger here. But it appears that we are the targets.”

“Do you think that was the plan all along?” Porthos ventured to ask.

“I don’t think so,” Aramis said. “It was the King who sent us here, after all.”

“With the blessings of Rochefort,” d’Artagnan reminded him.

Porthos, Athos, and Aramis looked at each other, communicating without speaking as they seem to have been born to do. Then Athos spoke. “The King can be blinded by Rochefort’s apparent common sense and loyalty. But it only serves to make me more suspicious.”

“Me, too,” Porthos agreed. “And I’m not giving up on getting to the bottom of what happened last night, either. I’ll be prowling this place till I get an answer.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “And I’ll be prowling with you.”

“We’ll _all_ have to be on our guard,” Aramis said.

“Do you think Baudin’s in on it?” d’Artagnan asked.

“What would he gain?” Porthos asked. “He’s best friends with the King of France. How much more up the ladder can you climb?”

“Porthos is right; it doesn’t make sense. He fought alongside us when we were attacked on the road, and he has said nothing but good things about musketeers to these people,” Aramis said. “If he is a part of a plot, I suggest it’s an unwitting one.”

“Let us just remain cautious at all times,” Athos suggested.

He didn’t say aloud what the Inseparables feared most: that Rochefort was taking aim at d’Artagnan, and he was using the King and his confidant Baudin to do it.

* TM * TM * TM *

“D’Artagnan, I must apologize for what happened to you last night.”

Sitting on the bed in his room at the inn, mere seconds from dousing the lamp and trying to succumb to sleep, D’Artagnan stopped rubbing at the growing headache at his temples and looked up at Baudin, perplexed. “Hm?”

“That attack never should have happened, and I am sorry for it,” Baudin said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” d’Artagnan said wearily. It had been a long day, and although he’d insisted that he wasn’t scared—and he wasn’t, he was certain—when all was said and done, the attack had sapped his strength, and after a day on his feet and on his guard, he was bone tired and sore, something apparently obvious to his friends, since Aramis had practically pushed him into his room for an early night’s rest, assuring of his safety, and of the watchful eyes of his friends upon him. Then Baudin had come to call. 

“I should have expected—well, after Moreaux’s comment yesterday…”

“I don’t think he did it,” d’Artagnan told him with a small sigh. “I think we just underestimated just how long the memories of these people are. It won’t happen again.”

“I certainly hope not,” Baudin agreed. He hesitated. “D’Artagnan, may I speak freely?”

D’Artagnan gestured loosely to the chair nearby.

Baudin sat down, rested his arms on his thighs, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “It pains me to see you suffer so for your loyalty to Louis,” he said finally.

“I am happy to serve His Majesty, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan responded automatically, but carefully. “Suffering does not come into it.”

Baudin shook his head and smiled softly. “You are so brave, d’Artagnan. Truly a noble gentleman. What Moreaux said yesterday—it is what the people of Vassy feel toward all soldiers of the King. You were likely singled out for attack because you were with me yesterday, representing _all_ musketeers.”

D’Artagnan just shrugged, uncomfortable with the conversation. “A soldier’s risk.”

“But there is more.” The solemn tone of Baudin’s voice made d’Artagnan take notice. “I cannot get past what Louis did to you after you protected him when you were captured to become Spanish galley slaves.” D’Artagnan said nothing. Baudin continued earnestly. “He was wrong, d’Artagnan. Wrong for treating you as he did. And the more time I spend with you, the more I feel he is unworthy of your devotion and respect.”

D’Artagnan’s sense of duty mixed with his hurt at being badly treated, and he answered almost in a whisper, “The King is worthy of the devotion and respect of all his subjects.”

“As a sovereign, perhaps. But as a man, he grievously wronged you, d’Artagnan.” Baudin paused, then said, “You are not so unlike the people of Vassy. You feel very strongly a need for justice in all things. As do they. Moreaux’s mention of the massacre was born of frustration and a sense of injustice. It was a vile and disgusting event, and it was plain that it does not sit well with you.”

“It was before His Majesty’s time,” d’Artagnan said more strongly.

“It was done by men devoted to their sovereign and what he declares as correct,” Baudin persisted. “The Huguenots were peaceful. And they were murdered. The act was unjust. And you believe, you know, that was wrong.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. His thin patience was disappearing. “What are you getting at, Baudin?”

“The people of Vassy can be your friends, d’Artagnan.”

“The people of _Vassy_ tried to _kill_ me,” the Gascon countered irritably.

“They don’t understand the kind of man you are.”

His temper fraying, d’Artagnan asked, “And what kind of man is that?”

“A fair one. An honorable one. One who can see both sides and who wants to be on the right one.”

D’Artagnan shut down. “I’m on the right one,” he answered. “I’m a King’s musketeer.”

“And your loyalty is being thrown away. Louis is throwing it away. You deserve more, d’Artagnan. I can help you with that.”

“Because you have the King’s ear?” d’Artagnan snapped. He stood up, forcing Baudin to look up at him, “I serve His Majesty. And however he chooses to treat me is his right, and it is my honor to accept.” He felt a twinge of hurt at the memory, but let it go. “I need no intervention from you.”

Baudin stood. The light of the lamp started to weaken, leaving flickering shadows dancing on the walls and across the faces of the two men. “I meant no offense, d’Artagnan. I will leave you to rest. There will be much more to discuss tomorrow.”

D’Artagnan met Baudin’s eyes with a strong look of his own, then gave a short nod and the man left. The Gascon remained where he was, wanting to make sense of the encounter, but within seconds there was a soft knock and the door opened.

Aramis popped his head in. “Are you all right?”

D’Artagnan smiled wanly. “Yes.”

“What did Baudin want?”

"I don't know."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this one had a title, it would likely be something like "Moonlight and Darkness." Read on...

“Tell me again why you’re following me around?” Porthos asked, glancing at Athos walking beside him. The two musketeers were scouring the village in the moonlight, as Porthos insisted on continuing his hunt for the person connected with the attack on d’Artagnan.

“Because stealth isn’t your strong point; you said so yourself,” Athos replied, making sure to look in every alley, open door, and window that still had light coming through it.

“And having two musketeers walking the streets side by side is stealthy?”

“One musketeer walking through the village alone would be more conspicuous, knowing how the people of Vassy feel about us,” Athos countered. 

Porthos shrugged. “I suppose.”

They slowed as they reached a small public house. “Are you certain you don’t know anything about what this villain looked like?”

Porthos shook his head. “It was too dark. All I know is he had a slim build, and he was a little taller than me.”

“And he flew gracefully through the air.”

“Not so graceful, but he was accommodating, at least.”

Athos opened the door to the pub waved Porthos through the entry. “Well, you must give him credit for that.”

“I do!” Porthos replied. “And I’d like to congratulate him in person. If only I could find him.”

“I’m sure d’Artagnan feels the same way.”

“He’d be here, too, if Aramis hadn’t practically sat on him to make him stay in tonight.”

“Misfortune seems to follow our young friend,” Athos reminded him. “He wasn’t fully recovered from his treatment by LeMaître when we left Paris. And the dressing down by the king is still weighing on his mind. He broods when he thinks no one is looking.”

“He learned that from you.” Porthos shrugged. “You’re a brooder.”

Athos raised one eyebrow and let the comment pass. The two of them made their way to a corner table, out of the way of the traffic of the place, and unaccustomed to how quiet it was when compared with the public houses they went to in Paris, even at this late hour. A serving wench came, and Porthos asked for some wine. She nodded understanding but didn’t smile, then came back with what he had asked for. He paid and she took the coins with a frown and walked away without speaking to him.

Porthos shrugged, then poured for them both. Athos surmised, “This morning’s request by Moreaux for pleasantries didn’t go down as well as he expected.” 

“I’m used to not being popular,” Porthos declared, taking a swallow of wine. “But this is getting insulting.”

Also drinking, Athos observed, “We’re supposed to help keep things calm. But from the reception we’ve received, I think it would be a lot calmer if we weren’t here.”

They sat and drank in silence for a little while, keeping their eyes on the front door, looking directly back at anyone looking at them, and trying surreptitiously to watch the movements of anyone passing through the establishment. They were about halfway through a bottle, with Porthos mumbling something about this not actually accomplishing what they had set out to do but content to nurse his cup just a little bit longer, when Athos indicated they should go. Porthos sighed at the waste of good wine but agreed, and they made their way past the thinning crowd and back out into the night.

They were only a few steps out the door when Athos touched the bigger man’s arm and pulled him immediately back into the shadows. Porthos looked at his companion to see him staring out into the distance. He followed Athos’s gaze and growled under his breath.

“That’s our friend from the attack on the road,” Porthos murmured.

“He doesn’t know we’ve spotted him,” Athos said softly. “We’ll wait and see where he goes, and then we’ll follow him.” 

“I told you stealth isn’t my strong point,” Porthos reminded him, his eyes shining in anger and a need to get the man in his grasp once again.

“Let us hope that you are better at it than your visitor last night.”

Porthos and Athos remained hidden between two buildings, watching the man as he talked animatedly with his companion. They waited so long they began to think the man lived at that house and was not going to leave. But after about fifteen minutes, he laughed, clapped his companion on the shoulder, then bade him adieu and moved on. The musketeers maintained a discreet distance, glad that the streets were empty for the most part and that they had enough places to hide.

Eventually, the man made his way to a small barn, looked around, and let himself in. Porthos and Athos surveyed the area to make sure they had not been followed, waited a couple of minutes, and then moved silently to the building, again secreting themselves in the darkness, while staying close enough to keep track of what was going on. The sound of voices reached their ears, and they held their breaths to listen.

“…and you helped them!”

“And then I helped _you._ Because you were stupid enough to be involved in that ill-conceived venture, and stupid enough to get caught. Attacking musketeers on the road. What made you even think that was a good idea?”

At the sound of the second voice, Athos and Porthos frowned and looked at each other in the darkness. Their chests tightening, they stayed still, trying to confirm what they suspected to be true.

“The fewer the musketeers in this world, the better.”

“That’s a very short-sighted attitude. A band of incompetent farmers and old men against four healthy musketeers. You’re lucky you made it out alive. And if I hadn’t been there to free you, you’d still be tied up in that shed and waiting for that big one, Porthos, to come and beat your story out of you. And don’t think he wouldn’t do it. Even the young one was ready to slice you in two.”

“I’m not afraid of the musketeers.”

Porthos gave a start in anger but didn’t speak.

“Then you’re stupid as well as foolish. I suppose you’re responsible for that little escapade last night as well. Trying to kill a musketeer in his sleep.”

“I won’t claim that one; I’ll just applaud it. What did you really think you were going to accomplish by your visit, anyway, Baudin? Did you really think the King would let you come out here without protection? They’d come out, see you look like you were trying to talk sense into us, and leave. And we’ll have gotten no further.”

The musketeers had their answer. Despite their previous unease about the King’s confidant, the confirmation that he was deeply involved with the people of Vassy was a hard blow. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” murmured Porthos, his eyes murderous in the darkness. Athos pressed his arm.

“Have you forgotten everything, Joubert? The point was to use them in our negotiations.”

“Yes, I can see how well that’s worked out so far,” spat Joubert. 

“Thanks to your brainless maneuverings since we’ve gotten here. Your comrades needed to approach this in a civilized manner. These four musketeers with me are intelligent men. They are _thinking_ men. You can’t use violence against Louis’s elite force,” Baudin scolded. “You’ll lose every time—which you will no doubt be reminded of every time you take a limping step. The plan was to make them see the sense of our argument, and have them confront the King with the wisdom of it.”

“And failing that?”

“And failing that we use them as bargaining chips in a final showdow. These musketeers are the best of the best. They are very valuable to Louis.”

Joubert snorted. “They are soldiers, and he is a vain and pompous man. He wouldn’t think twice about letting them die. You spend too much time at the palace, Baudin. You are beginning to believe the mythology of King Louis as told by him to his ignorant subjects. If you think he cares one whit about these men you are mistaken.”

“Perhaps. And if you are right, then I have no doubt brought the right musketeers with me.”

Joubert asked the question Athos and Porthos were thinking. “What are you talking about?”

“The young one—d’Artagnan—he and Louis were kidnapped and were going to be sold as galley slaves to the Spaniards. He protected the King with his own life, and yet the mule-headed brat thought only to berate the boy for not leaping to execute one of the turncoats as a _reward.”_

“So?”

“So, if need be, I have little doubt that betrayal will play on his mind. He is a Gascon; they never forget a slight.”

“He won’t forget _this_ one, either,” Porthos muttered.

“We’d better tell the others,” Athos suggested.

But as they moved to depart under cover of darkness, they found themselves surrounded.

* TM * TM * TM *

Sleeping soundly at last, it was a groggy d’Artagnan who responded to the gentle but persistent shaking of his shoulder. “D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan, you must wake up.”

“Hm?” he sighed, trying to force himself into wakefulness. He started to sit up, found himself being helped by Aramis, and blinked several times. “What? What is it?” he asked.

“Baudin has just come—Athos and Porthos have been captured. You must wake up, d’Artagnan.”

The Gascon’s tiredness vanished immediately. “What? _What?_ ” he asked, needing to know more, trying to comprehend. As Aramis turned and lit the lamp on the table, d’Artagnan rose, then pulled on his trousers. “Who took them? Where are they?”

“Baudin doesn’t know,” Aramis replied. He watched as d’Artagnan grabbed his boots, pausing only a second in deference to the pull of bruises that had stiffened in his sleep, and to injuries that he had all but ignored the past few days except when forced. “He said he’d stepped outside for some air after a meal and one of Moreaux’s delegates came running to tell him the news.”

D’Artagnan pulled on his doublet, and Aramis handed him his weapons. “Where is he now?”

“He’s downstairs waiting for us. He says the person who saw it happen might have an idea of where they’ve gone. We’ve got to go and search for them.”

D’Artagnan nodded, made sure his sword, _main gauche,_ and pistol were firmly secured, and followed Aramis out of the room and down the stairs. They would find their brothers, he vowed, and whoever was responsible would pay.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thanks so much for all your follows, favorites, kudos, and most of all reviews (Oh I do love them!). You’ll find out more of what’s going on in the next chapter. For now, a bit of H/C and yeah… had to put in a bit of whump!

“It’s up this way,” their guide said, pointing up toward a small barn. They had walked through the main part of Vassy, then for about fifteen minutes more, and they were now well out of the densely populated area and navigating purely by the light of the moon, which was peeking in and out from behind the few clouds.

D’Artagnan and Aramis had positioned themselves on either side of Baudin, determined that he should not be exposed to any more danger than necessary, even while potentially putting themselves in peril. Aramis had his pistol out and ready; d’Artagnan kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I followed them this far,” the young man told them, “and then they were suddenly gone. They can’t have gone much farther; there’s nothing out there.”

“Nothing but woods,” Aramis muttered. 

“Which is perfect if they didn’t have kidnapping in mind,” d’Artagnan added, tightening his grip on his sword.

“Let us pray for the best,” Baudin said. “Lead us on, Allain.”

Allain nodded and began to move toward the house. Aramis put a hand on the man’s arm to stop him. “Wait,” he said. He looked to d’Artagnan, who nodded and also turned, trying his best to scan the area for any clues as to where their friends were, or any danger that might be lurking. It was still, almost unnaturally still, and the musketeers pulled in closer around Baudin.

“What is it?” Baudin asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Aramis murmured, still trying to see, tensing as the moon once again disappeared behind a cloud. “But experience tells me that when all appears too perfect…”

“It probably is!” finished d’Artagnan, suddenly unsheathing his sword and spreading his arms wide in front of Baudin and Allain. The nearby underbrush came alive and men came pouring out, their presence well hidden by the night, so that they became like apparitions as they moved in on the four men. Aramis also drew his sword and turned his back to Baudin, forcing the man in between himself and d’Artagnan. Allain also pulled himself into the tight circle. 

“Take this,” Aramis said to Allain, forcing his _main gauche_ into the young man’s hand. “You may need it.” Then he glanced at Baudin, who had drawn the pistol he had brought with him. He nodded, telling the sharpshooter that it was ready to fire. D’Artagnan handed over his own knife to Baudin. “Use it if you must,” he said. “Our mission is to protect you.”

The first of the group of attackers came forward, swords drawn and poignards ready. With a noise like a battle cry, d’Artagnan launched forward, flourishing his sword against his closest opponent while trying to keep an eye on the others still coming toward them. Aramis did the same. Steel clashed with steel, the sharp sounds penetrating the cold night air. For a time, the musketeers successfully held off their foes, but more were coming, and it was clear they had been expected and their resistance prepared for. Baudin fired his pistol—missing, from all they could see, but succeeding in briefly dividing the enemy. 

After a time it became impossible to stay in the tight circle, and Aramis was drawn away from the others by two insistent swordsmen. When a third joined in against him, he took swift aim and fired his pistol at one of them, killing him instantly. He dropped the pistol on the ground and continued fighting the other two, the shock of seeing one of their co-conspirator felled briefly giving Aramis the advantage, and used it to run one of the attackers through with his blade, leaving him only one to go.

D’Artagnan, in the meantime, was facing three of his own, and his not-quite-healed right shoulder was starting to flag. He, too, took quick aim and fired his pistol, but the shot went wide when a muscle in his shoulder spasmed and he gasped in pain. He dropped the now-useless gun and continued his swordplay, but it was clear that he was starting to lose the fight. 

Aramis finished off his final opponent and looked to see how Baudin and Allain were faring, only to be stunned to find them gone. He frantically ran his eyes along the trees and brush closest to them and finally honed in on several figures making their way through the trees and away, with Baudin and Allain bundled amongst them. He was about to follow when he heard a cry from behind him.

“Aramis!”

The musketeer turned at the sound of his name, only to find d’Artagnan down on one knee, still fighting, but with his sword raised above his head—in his left hand, Aramis couldn’t help but notice—and surrounded.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis called. “Why don’t you gentlemen try and play _fair_?”

As one of the three turned to face Aramis, another of the trio continued battling d’Artagnan with his sword, while the last of them came up from behind the Gascon and struck him hard on the head with his pistol. D’Artagnan’s other knee hit the ground, his sword hand dropped, and his weapon slipped from his grasp. Though clearly dazed, he didn’t fall, earning him a second, harsher blow that finished the job.

Unable to stop his own fight to check on his brother, Aramis quickly found himself surrounded by three newly-arrived men, who were then joined by the others who had felled d’Artagnan. One of them put a pistol to his head, while another pulled down his sword arm. “Are you going to come quietly? Or do we have to do to you what we did to your friend?”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” Aramis asked, not feeling any of the confidence the words were meant to convey. But then, that was one of the things musketeers did best—putting on a good show, even when circumstances seemed hopeless. He watched as two of the men moved over to clumsily pick up d’Artagnan, obviously intending to bring him along. Clearly, killing wasn’t what they had in mind. “Perhaps you’ll let me tend to my companion; he’s of no use to you in that condition.”

“He’s no use to us in _any_ condition,” said one of the attackers, eliciting a laugh from the others. “But orders are orders.” Watching Aramis being disarmed, he added, “You can stay with him. Whatever you do with him is your own affair.” He looked at the others. “We’re done here; time to go.”

* TM * TM * TM *

He opened his eyes, then immediately squeezed them shut tight as the small amount of light pierced his already throbbing head. He hissed in pain, and felt a hand gently pressing on his chest. “Easy, d’Artagnan. Go slowly.”

 _Aramis._ D’Artagnan tried again, obeying the words of his friend, and this time he managed to keep his eyes open a slit without exacerbating the hammering encompassing his skull. “What…” he asked breathily. “What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

D’Artagnan tried to think, wishing it didn’t hurt so much to do so. “Baudin… Baudin came and told us that… Athos and Porthos…” He let the sentence trail off. It was too hard right now. But he’d gotten his point across.

“So you don’t remember being attacked and captured. I’m afraid you have a concussion, my friend. You need to stay quiet for awhile.”

“Attacked—” D’Artagnan tried to sit up, alarmed. His injured shoulder screamed at the move, and he instantly felt dizzy and swayed, succumbing easily to the attempts by Aramis to lay him back down. But he quickly realized he couldn’t stay there. “Aramis,” he said. The musketeer began to shush him, but the warning and growing panic in d’Artagnan’s voice made him cease. _“Aramis!”_

Aramis pulled him up and turned him to the side just in time for d’Artagnan to expel the contents of his stomach, which was blessedly little, since his last meal had been several hours earlier. _“Aahhh,”_ the young man grimaced, as his head seemed to swell angrily from the movement and his shoulder throbbed fire with every heartbeat. He broke out in a cold sweat as Aramis eased him down again. “Sorry,” d’Artagnan moaned, closing his eyes.

“It’s all right, d’Artagnan,” came the medic’s soothing voice. 

Seconds later, d’Artagnan felt a cool, damp cloth running along the side of his face and the back of his neck. He smiled as he continued breathing down his pain. “Thank… thank…”

“Shh,” Aramis said softly. “Your wounded shoulder has been aggravated by the fight,” he explained. “You were swordfighting with your left hand in the end. You weren’t doing too badly, mind, but that’s something I believe only Athos has mastered. I’m sure he’ll teach you if you ask him.”

But Aramis’s words had worried d’Artagnan, and he needed to know more. Trying very hard not to aggravate his headache, he opened his eyes and whispered, “Where are we?”

“In an old house, in a cellar somewhere in Vassy,” was the vague answer. “I haven’t seen Athos and Porthos yet, and I didn’t want to go exploring while you were unconscious. At least they let me stay with you, and gave me water to tend you.”

“But—but…”

“Shh,” Aramis said again, hoping to keep his brother calm. He was unhappy with the length of time d’Artagnan had been unconscious, and was now equally concerned about his memory loss and the pain he could do nothing substantial to relieve. All he could do now was try and keep him still, something that, for the moment at least, d’Artagnan seemed inclined to do. “D’Artagnan, there is nothing to be done at the moment. You cannot travel when you cannot even sit up. We will stay until you are well enough, and then we will find our brothers, and get out.” Seeing the Gascon’s minute burst of energy waning fast, Aramis added, “Now rest. That is all there is to be done.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes.

* TM * TM * TM *

“Slowly, d’Artagnan.”

Aramis warned the young man as he saw him waking again. He’d used the time d’Artagnan was out of it to move the lad away from where he’d been sick, and over to another section of the cellar, not wanting to waste any of the precious water they had been given on cleaning up what he hoped was very temporary accommodation. Though this time d’Artagnan appeared less confused, the medic nonetheless wanted to make sure that he didn’t do anything characteristically rash, and therefore make himself nauseous again. He smiled as two dark eyes fixed on him in the dimness.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked.

D’Artagnan seemed to consider, then said, his voice betraying a scratchy and dry throat, “Better.” He tried to clear his throat, but winced as the action knifed his skull, and stopped.

Aramis nodded. “Water?”

“Please,” d’Artagnan whispered. 

There was no cup, so Aramis very gently helped d’Artagnan sit up enough to drink water out of the medic’s cupped hand. It was a short journey, but clearly difficult on the Gascon, who moaned and began to lean heavily on his friend. Aramis supported him, then helped him to lie down again.

“You still have a headache,” Aramis guessed.

“Mm,” is all d’Artagnan said, his eyes shut once again.

“I’m afraid I have no comfort to offer but words and a cool cloth. When we’re out of here, I’ll bind your shoulder, and prepare a draught for the pain, and you’ll drink it.”

“No complaints,” breathed d’Artagnan.

“Can you listen? Understand?” Aramis asked.

It took a little longer than Aramis wanted, but when d’Artagnan opened his eyes, the answer was clear: “Yes.”

“I don’t think we are being held far from Athos and Porthos. Baudin was with us when we were attacked, but I have not seen him since. I do not know where they have taken him.”

There was silence from d’Artagnan, and as Aramis had spoken he watched the young man’s eyes drift shut. He was worried now. He knew the blows with the pistol that d’Artagnan had taken during the fight had been very hard, but he equally knew of the stubbornness of his friend, who would normally have fought to stay awake and to plan an escape. The fact that he was not succeeding at either right now concerned the medic greatly.

Aramis was just dipping the cloth into the water bucket to try and offer some relief to the Gascon, when the lad’s weak voice reached his ears. 

“Failed,” d’Artagnan breathed.

Aramis stopped his task and looked at his friend, whose eyes were still closed, but whose face was screwed up in pain. “What?” he asked, leaning in to hear the barely audible whisper.

“Supposed to… protect Baudin…. King will say… we failed.”

Aramis’s heart clenched. Although d’Artagnan had never said it, he knew the lad looked on this mission as a way of regaining the favor of King Louis. The reprimand after the Dauphin’s christening, the complete disregard for the injuries the Gascon had endured that Aramis knew the King had to be aware of, the mocking dismissal of d’Artagnan’s sense of honor as “romantic”—Aramis knew that all of this had wounded his young brother, and continued to weigh on him throughout their journey. Now, with Baudin’s whereabouts unknown, and a very strong possibility that he was not safe, Louis would have another arrow to take aim at d’Artagnan’s heart. And whether it was deserving or not, he knew the young musketeer would consider it a justification of the King’s previous disappointment in him. And that was something Aramis couldn’t let his friend believe that was true.

He turned and finished wringing out the scrap of cloth, then tenderly touched it to the back of the young man’s neck. “We haven’t failed yet, d’Artagnan,” he told him, determined that his brother would accept him at his word. "And I promise you, we won’t.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things start to get prickly for our musketeers.

Thanks, all, for your patience here. I had a few things to sort out before I finished this chapter, but now that I’ve done it I think it will be a bit faster sailing from here.

Onward!

* TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan sat propped against the wall of the cellar, trying to ignore the coldness of the room seeping into his bones, trying to push down the throbbing in his head and the soreness of his shoulder as he left his arm draped across his body, and trying to avoid the probing eyes of Aramis, who sat not far from him, waiting out the night.

Resigned to waiting in their dank, almost lightless, prison, d’Artagnan had slipped into lethargy, wishing only for his friends to come and for his pain to disappear. His headache had receded somewhat since he first awoke, and the pain in shoulder was now a persistent, dull ache. But sudden moves when he fell asleep and then unexpectedly jerked awake still forced a groan from his lips. And that prompted another worried look and soothing sounds from Aramis, which lulled him back into his stupor. It was an oddly comforting cycle, as it reminded him that at least one of his friends was nearby, and wouldn’t give up.

He had had a murmured conversation with Aramis about trying to find a way out of this place again, and wondered if anyone was even guarding them. Too weak and unwell to find out for himself, it nevertheless niggled at him that Aramis refused to leave his side and go looking to get out for himself. He was almost at the point of sleep again when he heard the sound of a bolt being slid across the door, and chains being loosened. He tried to care enough to put up with any pain that moving quickly to take advantage of an open door might bring, but he found he couldn’t manage it, and so he just opened his eyes wider to try and make himself more alert, and watched as Aramis leaned forward, as though ready to spring up off the floor.

The door swung open, and three men appeared, one of them carrying a lamp that made d’Artagnan wince. Aramis put a hand on his leg in reassurance.

“Time to go,” one of the men said.

Fleetingly, d’Artagnan wondered if this wasn’t his companion’s best chance to escape. The door was open; the men seemed to have their guard down, as if they didn’t expect much, if any, resistance; and Aramis had a sharp eye that would serve him well in the darkness of this night. But the sharpshooter made no such move, instead eyeing d’Artagnan carefully, as though considering what this would mean to the young man in his current condition.

Resigned to the situation, and not really able to continue thinking clearly, d’Artagnan nodded minutely, knowing that getting up wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as it sounded. Aramis reached out to help him move away from the wall, and d’Artagnan clung to his friend’s arm as they rose, his head spinning. The young man was sure he was going to be physically sick, but he managed to get to his feet without incident. Exhausted by the exertion, he let out a breathless grunt when he felt strong enough to walk. But as they began to move, the man who had first spoken stopped them. “Not you,” he said to Aramis. “Just him.”

Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan and then back at their captor. “He’s still unsteady on his feet. I’d like to stay with—”

“We’ll take care of him.” The man offered a smile that showed he was happy with his reply, then added, “In the meantime, you can go visit your friends.”

D’Artagnan nodded at Aramis, his eyes, dull with pain, acknowledging the necessity of the separation. “Now we know they are alive,” Aramis murmured to him. The Gascon’s head dipped as one of the other men came and took him by the right arm, pulling him away from the support of his friend and sharpening his discomfort. 

“Be careful,” Aramis ordered the man crossly. To d’Artagnan, he murmured a promise as they were separated. “We will find you, brother,” he said. “All for one.”

His mind once again clouded and unfocused, d’Artagnan didn’t answer as he was pulled out into the night air.

* TM * TM * TM *

“Porthos? Athos?”

“Aramis? Is that you?”

Aramis’s wariness disappeared when he heard his big friend’s voice in the darkness. He tried to make his way to the source. “It is, brother. And Athos?”

“I am here.”

The trio found each other and embraced mightily. As Aramis’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light of this new prison—another cellar, he was able to determine, less than a mile from where he and d’Artagnan had been held together—he couldn’t help but notice them looking worse for wear. “You’re hurt?” he asked Porthos.

Porthos put a hand up to some dried blood on his forehead and temple. “Not mine,” he shrugged. “Must have belonged to the fella I threw over my head before we got here.”

For the first time in hours, Aramis smiled. “Athos?”

“I’m fine,” the musketeer answered. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

“Captured. We were together, but then they took him away and brought me here. Baudin was also with us when we were attacked; I don’t know where they’ve taken him.”

Athos and Porthos exchanged a dark look. “We have to talk.”

And so the two of them told Aramis what they had heard and seen earlier that evening. Aramis frowned and his eyes widened as he learned what they had discovered. When they were finished, he told them his own story, then said, “Then our unease about Baudin was correct. The King will be blind to anything he may be plotting, and he won’t want to hear about it.”

“Certainly not from us,” Athos agreed.

“We were set up. D’Artagnan most of all. We’ve gotta find him and get back to Paris,” Porthos said.

Aramis let out a frustrated breath through his nose. “I wish it was that easy.” He was about to add that he was concerned about their youngest traveling in his current physical condition, but stopped. There was no point in worrying the others about something they could do nothing about; plus, they might have no choice but to gather him up and flee, regardless of the medic’s misgivings. He looked around at their surroundings, trying to make sense of what was happening.

But something in his face must have given him away. Porthos asked, “What is it, ’Mis?”

Aramis redirected his thoughts. “Earlier this evening, Baudin came to d’Artagnan’s room and again spoke with him about how he was treated after the christening.” He frowned. “He could be trying to turn our young friend against the King.”

“It won’t happen,” Porthos said immediately.

“But it does fit in with everything Porthos and I heard tonight,” Athos added. “They’re hoping to use D’Artagnan to get what they want.”

“But how?” asked Porthos.

“I’m not sure how. But they want freedom. And maybe the collapse of the Crown.”

“How many men did you see guarding this place?” Porthos asked Aramis.

“Two brought me here. There were two already outside,” Aramis answered.

Athos considered. “Four of them. Three of us.” 

“I like them odds,” Porthos said with a nod.

“I don’t,” Athos countered. “These people clearly know musketeers are capable of fighting off such a small number of men. They must think we’ve got good reason to stay.”

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis guessed.

“Precisely.”

“But we don’t know where he is or what they’re doing to him.”

“Then I expect they’ll tell us soon,” Athos replied. “And in the meantime, we must wait.”

“And what if they don’t tell us anything?” Porthos asked.

“Then we’ll have to take matters into our own hands. But I suspect it won’t come to that.”

Aramis crossed his arms. “I don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” said Porthos, always ready to act.

“But I have to say I agree.” Porthos frowned but listened to Aramis’s wisdom. “We’ll get further, faster, if we have some idea where d’Artagnan’s been taken. Knowing where he was isn’t the same as knowing where he is. If we go out blindly, we could be looking in all the wrong places. At least staying a little longer will give us a chance to find something out.”

“Yeah, all right,” grumbled Porthos. “But how long do we give them?”

“I doubt they’ll respect our need for sleep, or d’Artagnan’s, so whatever their plans are, they’re most likely carrying them out now. After that it’s only a matter of time.”

“Daybreak,” Porthos decided. “More than enough time, if you ask me.”

Athos nodded agreement. “Daybreak.”

“Daybreak,” echoed Aramis. “Let’s hope d’Artagnan holds out until then, whatever it is they have planned for him.”

Athos moved to the area furthest from the door, and sank down so he was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. “Let us not waste the time we have. We need to consider what to do about Baudin when we finally reunite with our brother.”

Porthos shook his head as he and Aramis joined him on the floor. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Tired but on edge, d’Artagnan stood in the middle of a sitting room, flanked by the two men who’d pulled him away from Aramis, with two others standing near the doorway and sitting near the dwindling fire in the modest stone fireplace. A small wooden table nearby held a lamp whose light was bright but not far-reaching, and a skilfully woven blanket over the back of a rocking chair and a small painting of flowers on the opposite wall told d’Artagnan that this was likely a home with a woman in it, usually. But there was no sign of a feminine resident now; nor did he look for one. He had no idea what time it was, and although he wanted to think about Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, he found that a difficult task. His shoulder was sore after all the pulling along, and his head was killing him. He was grateful for the low light, and would have loved to just lie down and sleep, but he suspected he wasn’t going to get any rest in the near future.

Despite the exhaustion and pain that muted most of his responses, he still found himself surprised when Baudin came into the room. It took him a few seconds to realize that the man was not bound or dirty, nor did he seem to have been mistreated, and the smallest sense of relief overcame him, with the echo in his head of the King’s voice calling him a failure and a disappointment receding momentarily. _Maybe I can still get him out._

Baudin looked at the Gascon, and at the men surrounding him, and gestured to a nearby chair. “He looks like he can barely stand. Let him sit down.”

Without any arguments, one of the men moved aside, revealing a hard chair behind him, and another man pushed d’Artagnan into it. Grateful but sore, the young man closed his eyes for a moment, when he felt a hand on his left shoulder. Looking up, he found Baudin leaning over him, staring back at him with probing eyes. “Are you all right, d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan nodded wearily. Baudin stood back up and addressed the man who’d just shoved the musketeer. “It was foolish to injure him. We need him healthy.”

D’Artagnan blinked. _What?_

Baudin turned back to the young man. “D’Artagnan, these men have no love of the King, or of his soldiers. They acted on their own, and I’m sorry.”

D’Artagnan was still bewildered. Was his headache making him confuse things? “I—” _Oww. Softer._ “I don’t understand. You were captured with us.”

“That’s not exactly true.” 

_Uh-oh._

“D’Artagnan, these people have been very patient. But they need more now.”

D’Artagnan tried to concentrate. “His Majesty has promised to listen. That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help the people of Vassy.”

“You’re here to represent the King,” d’Artagnan corrected softly and deliberately.

Baudin’s voice grew colder. _“The King_ doesn’t represent these people, d’Artagnan. _The King_ relegates them to a small, poverty-stricken area of France, with no hope for the future.”

A cold feeling began to settle in the pit of d’Artagnan’s stomach, overriding any tiredness or discomfort he was experiencing. Baudin’s tone was calling to mind all the encounters they’d had that had made little sense to the Gascon at the time, but which were now falling into place in the worst way possible. “His Majesty trusts you,” d’Artagnan said in a low voice.

“He is not worthy of that trust,” Baudin declared.

_“You’re one of his best friends,”_ d’Artagnan persisted.

“And you are his champion,” Baudin shot back sharply. “And you can see how well that has served you.” D’Artagnan grew quiet; Baudin’s tone softened. “You see, d’Artagnan. Louis’s promises are not often kept. You witnessed that yourself in the execution of Bruno LeMaître. A promise for clemency—and a verdict of death.”

“Louis is our king, and a good man,” d’Artagnan said. But the sentiment sounded hollow even to him. A bark of a laugh from someone nearby. D’Artagnan didn’t bother to see where it came from. “He deserves to have people around him whom he can trust.”

Baudin smiled. “He has me… and he has you. And he trusts us both.”

D’Artagnan furrowed his brow. “I have a feeling that that trust is misplaced… in one case.”

“Perhaps now in both.” D’Artagnan’s expression hardened. “I meant everything I’ve said to you on this trip, d’Artagnan: Louis was wrong to treat you as he did. He was a fool to think you would find killing LeMaître to be an honor. And he was just too pompous to truly understand the sacrifice you made for him when you were captured, and continue to make for him.”

“His Majesty was frightened,” d’Artagnan said. “He had every right to be.”

“I had hoped to be able to persuade you to join us in a civil way, d’Artagnan. But no matter; what must happen, will happen. The plans are made, and you _will_ join us now. Louis _will_ be made to pay. And eventually, the people of Vassy, and all those like them, will be free of the oppression of France.”

“You don’t need me,” d’Artagnan said, this treasonous talk disturbing him, and his injuries starting to overwhelm him again. His voice was low. “You could do these things on your own.”

“It might have been possible,” Baudin admitted. “Although I was almost positive that Louis’s treatment of you would push you over the edge, and make you a strong ally. I certainly hoped it, d’Artagnan. You being close to Louis—no matter what he said to you, or _about_ you, if nothing else, he trusts you—would have been perfect placement for when our plans were ready to come to fruition.”

D’Artagnan’s headache was returning in force. “If you’re trying to implicate me in your scheme, why not do whatever it is you want to do, and then just lie to the King? If he trusts you so much, surely he would listen to what you have to say about me.” He stopped, considered only briefly, then added with a touch of bitterness he couldn’t hide, “Especially after his disappointment the other day.”

Baudin explained, “Athos and Porthos poked their noses into things tonight. They found out things I didn’t need them to know. They may be tempted to tell the story of my true alliance to Louis. But if you are involved in my activities, then that is something I know they will not do. Because if my purpose is uncovered, your complicity will also be revealed. Their telling can only bring you to harm.”

“And if I refuse to help you?”

“Then your friends die. It’s quite simple, really. I had hoped you would work with me willingly. The plans I wrote up always had room for your involvement, and a position of leadership for you after the revolution. But once my secret got out to your friends the wrong way, I had come to you more forcefully. And since you’re not as pliant as I had hoped...” Baudin shrugged, almost sheepishly.

“You figured the only way to get me to work with you is to threaten the musketeers,” d’Artagnan finished. He glared at Baudin. “It won’t work.”

“Won’t it?” Baudin asked, clearly not believing him. 

“Musketeers swear to protect the King’s life, even at the expense of our own. It’s an oath we take seriously.”

Baudin nodded, then smiled sagely. “My plans are very well thought-out, d’Artagnan. I have considered every conceivable outcome. I know you musketeers may still want to speak out. But your friends will bide their time, trying to protect you, and by the time they figure out a way to save the King without harming you—and there won’t be one—it will be too late. For you—and most importantly, for him.” Baudin came and sat beside the young man, who seemed to be fading out of consciousness even as he sat absorbing the enormity of the betrayal happening before his eyes. “You can save your friends, d’Artagnan. And you can get the honor you deserve. Join me—join _us—_ and you’ll be a hero, and your friends will be alive.”

His head aching viciously, his mind spinning, his heart wanting more than anything to be with his brothers again, d’Artagnan let his eyes drift shut as he made his decision. Pulling his scattering thoughts together, he opened his eyes, looked at Baudin, and announced loudly enough to spike the pounding in his head, “I’ll do it.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get real... and some serious angst in this.
> 
> Have a look and PLEASE let me know what you think!

Baudin’s joy at d’Artagnan’s decision to join the uprising was short-lived but hearty. After a quiet discussion across the room with his men, he came back to d’Artagnan, who was now sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed, and his eyes closed.

“An herbswoman will come to tend to you, d’Artagnan,” he said. “You’re clearly in need of assistance.”

Rubbing the back of his neck carefully, d’Artagnan answered, “Your thugs have good aim.”

“I am sorry for it,” Baudin said. “There is a room upstairs where you can rest. This is a simple home, but it is comfortable.”

“Anything’s better than the cellar,” d’Artagnan said, straightening. He touched his hand to the back of his head and squeezed his eyes shut when he met a particularly tender point. He hissed out a breath through his teeth. 

“No more cellars, d’Artagnan,” Baudin promised. “From now on, you are with me.”

D’Artagnan nodded, lowering his hand. “What about Aramis and the others?” 

Baudin replied, “Once they understand the situation, there will be no need to hold them. They will be free to join us on the journey back to Paris.”

“Let me be the one to tell them,” d’Artagnan said. “They won’t believe it if it doesn’t come straight from my mouth.”

Baudin considered, looking deeply into the young man’s eyes. When he saw raw determination there, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll let you speak to one of them. I don’t have the men to spare right now to protect you from all three.”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes questioningly. “You think they’ll change my mind?”

“I think Porthos alone could kill you for this,” Baudin replied. D’Artagnan nodded. “But certainly the three of them would try and convince you of the error of your ways. Get your message across to one of them—Athos—and he will tell the others.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Baudin laid a hand on the Gascon’s arm. “At daybreak. You must rest now, and recover your health and your strength.” He offered a knowing smile. “You’ll need it to face Athos.”

A small nod as d’Artagnan acknowledged the truth of his statement. “Thank you.” He turned to walk out of the room and up the nearby stairs, when he Baudin’s words stopped him.

“D’Artagnan,” he said, “I will never humiliate you the way Louis has. You are intelligent, resourceful, and loyal. Qualities I promise you I will never take for granted.”

D’Artagnan took a few seconds to compose himself, then replied simply. “Thank you.” He climbed the first two stairs, then turned back. “If you expect the musketeers to be there in the morning, you’d better guard them well. They don’t take kindly to being held captive. And they’d come looking for me.”

Baudin nodded slowly. “Rest, d’Artagnan. The herbswoman will join you soon.”

With exhaustion and his decision weighing him down, d’Artagnan headed up the stairs.

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos paced the small room of the crowded little hut, angry at being taken away from Aramis and Porthos, worried that this morning there were more guards at the room they had been held in, and more than a little concerned that they had not heard about or seen d’Artagnan all night. Aramis had finally told him and Porthos of his injuries, and knowing what it normally took to keep their youngest down, he fretted that this whole mess would make the Gascon’s worrisome condition worse, with no one to help him nearby. He fumed as he paced, trying to think of a way that they might expose Baudin and retrieve d’Artagnan. But every time, he was struck by the knowledge that they could be playing with their brother’s life, something none of them was willing to do.

He was considering his options when he heard the lock being unlatched on the door. He steeled himself, physically as well as mentally, for whatever was next. But still he was unprepared for what he saw.

“D’Artagnan,” he breathed, unable to dismiss the relief he felt at seeing his protégé appearing tired but unharmed. Athos searched him quickly with his eyes, seeing no bruises, no chains, no ties. Was that a touch of pain in his eyes? Considering Aramis’s revelations, he wouldn’t be surprised. But there was no bowing to it; in fact, d’Artagnan seemed at this moment to be focused and determined. He waited as the two men behind his brother positioned themselves—one in the room with them, the other nodding and shutting the door, presumably standing guard outside. Athos offered a careful hug when the Gascon approached with a guarded smile, mindful of Aramis’s words about his shoulder.

“It’s good to see you,” Athos said, genuinely.

D’Artagnan nodded. “Are you all right?”

“Better than you, apparently,” Athos replied. “Aramis says you’ve been injured.”

“I’m feeling better now. Baudin got an herbswoman in to help me. And gave me a bed to sleep in.”

Athos raised an eyebrow but didn’t change his cautious expression. “That’s good.”

His eyes flitting around the room, as though unwilling to rest on Athos, d’Artagnan said, “I need to talk to you.” He turned to the burly man who had accompanied him and asked, “Can we be alone, please?”

But the man shook his head. “You’re to be watched.”

D’Artagnan breathed out a tiny smirk. “Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not up to me. And Baudin wants you guarded while you’re with _him_ ,” the man said, with a shrug in Athos’s direction.

D’Artagnan’s expression changed to one of annoyance. “Fine,” he said. He looked at the rickety wooden chairs nearby, seemed to consider sitting, then changed his mind.

Athos sensed his brother’s unease and frowned. “What is it?” he asked, his usual serious tone underpinned with concern.

Another few seconds of silence as d’Artagnan seemed to struggle to find the right words. “You’re being freed today. You and Aramis and Porthos.”

Athos felt a thrill of fear for their youngest at his choice of words. “And you?” he asked.

D’Artagnan glanced back over to the guard, then back to Athos. “Baudin is plotting to help the Protestants,” he said earnestly.

Athos’s eyes also shot to the guard, who seemed to be paying little attention. “I know. Porthos and I stumbled upon a clandestine meeting last night.”

“When you are set free, I will stay with him.”

“You don’t need to take him on alone,” Athos protested immediately. “We will find a way to get out of here, and take you with us. Abandoning a brother is not how we operate.”

“You don’t understand, Athos. I _want_ to stay with Baudin.” The elder musketeer stopped, struck dumb by his brother’s words. “I want to work with him.”

Alarmed, stunned, by the announcement, Athos could only think of one thing to say. “You must have hit your head harder than Aramis thought.”

He could see the light pink of humiliation rise into d’Artagnan’s cheeks. “I’m not a fool, Athos,” d’Artagnan said, his tone sharper than Athos was used to having directed at him. “The King no longer trusts me. The three of you feel like you constantly have to protect me. I’m failing at being a musketeer—the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world. At least this way, I feel like I’m helping people.”

“You’re helping Baudin betray the King.”

“What happened in Vassy before us was wrong, Athos. We need to make up for that. We need to give these people a better future. Baudin’s got a plan worked out, and I’m going to help him with it. And you’re going to stay alive, because you’re going to let me.”

Athos just stared at his young brother, his head swimming at the change in his outlook. D’Artagnan looked again toward the guard in the room with them. Frowning, he turned his eyes back to the musketeer. “If you and the others try to expose Baudin’s plans, he’ll make sure you’re killed instantly. Then I’ll be killed as a traitor. It’s a lose-lose situation. I’d rather have us all alive.”

Athos began to get angry, the foolishness of the Gascon and his resignation to an action that was guaranteed to get him killed frustrating him. What would make d’Artagnan listen? “You swore an oath to the King. You knelt at his feet the day he granted you your commission and promised to serve him and put his life before yours in all things.”

“Well, I failed at that, didn’t I?” d’Artagnan reminded him bitterly. “That’s how the King sees it; he’s made it abundantly clear.” He accepted the stern stare of his mentor head on. Then, after a tense moment, he dropped his eyes. “At least this way, I can keep one part of the musketeers’ code: to protect my brothers.”

Athos shook his head. “If you go ahead with this, you’ll no longer be our brother.” D’Artagnan’s eyes suddenly shone with what Athos read as distress. “You won’t be worthy of the title.”

“Athos, please try to understand. I _have_ to do this.”

“You bring shame on the musketeers, d’Artagnan,” Athos told him. Then, with one last attempt to make the boy see sense, he added, “And shame on your father’s name.”

D’Artagnan paled as though he’d been struck in the face, and for a moment Athos thought he’d succeeded in bringing the young man around. He could see d’Artagnan trembling, as though he was fighting within himself, and he had hope he’d chosen the right words. His heart sank when the Gascon spoke.

“You have been my friends,” d’Artagnan said, his voice strangled. “And more, you have been my family.” He paused, his breath seeming to Athos to come in gasps. But the boy’s resolve didn’t waver. “I shall miss our brotherhood. But this, I must do.” 

The pain on the lad’s face, the tremble in his voice, the shine in his eye that betrayed tears threatening to fall, all of it nearly drove Athos to pull the Gascon into his arms and force him to abandon this path that would surely destroy his life. But Athos could see that d’Artagnan was willing himself to stay resolute, and that his overture would most likely come to naught. So he said stonily, “If there is a way to stop you, we will do it, d’Artagnan. But we will not speak of it, I will promise you that, in deference to our history.” D’Artagnan nodded, and Athos saw the tiniest bit of relief creep onto the boy’s face. “But you are no longer our brother,” he added, watching the relief crumble into unspoken but complete devastation. “Leave me now,” Athos commanded, dismissing him with a wave of his hand, and turning away. “Go join your new brother, Baudin. I cannot stand to look at you.”

He heard the hitch in d’Artagnan’s breathing, knew that he had hurt the young man deeply. But truth be told he _couldn’t_ look at him, not now, not this way. Not without wanting to shake him hard until he saw sense. He’d been wrong about the lad; wrong from the day he laid eyes on him. That passion, that need for justice he had thought he understood. The anger, the underlying need to be accepted—all of it, all of it was wrong. D’Artagnan was a child, not a champion, and Athos had believed in him so much that this turnabout, this failure, was his failure, too. And he could not bear to face it.

A broken voice made a final plea. “Athos…”

_“Get out!”_ Athos roared. He turned his body fully away, and didn’t turn back until he was sure d’Artagnan was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys find things a bit awkward.

First of all, thank you so much for all your kind words, your likes, follows, kudos. These all mean so much to me. To those of you who took the time to tell me EXACTLY what you’re thinking (reviews)—rest assured, I have all your thoughts in mind… and I totally understand! To the guests to whom I cannot respond, please know your words are also appreciated.

I’m afraid things don’t get a lot better at the moment, but we have some maneuvering to do… and more road to travel… please PLEASE review!

* TM * TM * TM *

The troubled expression on d’Artagnan’s face as he came back into the house brought Baudin to the young man’s side instantly. “Are you all right, d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan glanced at Baudin but kept walking toward the stairs. “Fine,” he said abruptly. “I have to go back to the inn to get my things. And I’d appreciate my weapons being returned to me.”

“You shall have them.”

“Thank you.”

“How did your talk with Athos go?” Baudin asked.

D’Artagnan halted at this, and his voice softened enough for Baudin to take notice. “He’ll tell the others. They won’t say anything.”

“Well done, lad,” Baudin said gently. He put a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder. “You’ve made the right decision, d’Artagnan. You will be part of the new France.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” d’Artagnan answered. Then, shrugging Baudin’s hand off his shoulder, he said, “I’ll be down in a minute.” And he all but ran up the stairs.

Baudin gestured for the man who had been in the room with d’Artagnan and Athos to approach. “Well?” he asked.

The man nodded. “He told Athos what he was supposed to. Didn’t mince words.” He shrugged. “Then Athos disowned him.”

“That explains the mood; Athos was a mentor, and I suspect something of a father.” Baudin looked up the stairs where d’Artagnan had disappeared. “Keep an eye on him. He will be feeling loss. We can’t take a chance that he will succumb to the need for their approval and return to their side.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I believe he is sincere. I also believe that he is weak. Staying with him will keep him strong. Don’t leave him alone with them. We will test him soon.”

* TM * TM * TM *

“Well, this looks cozy,” Aramis observed, his voice forcibly bright as he and Porthos were escorted into the small hut where Athos had met with d’Artagnan. “And look!” he added, holding out bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine as their guards left them alone once again. “Breakfast!”

Athos’s dour face turned toward his brothers for only a second, then he looked back to the cold, unlit fireplace. Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis and frowned. “What’sa matter?” he asked. “Not your vintage?”

“I saw d’Artagnan,” Athos said as Aramis set the meal onto the table.

Aramis paused in his preparation. Porthos gripped the back of the chair he had pulled out and held his breath. “And?” Aramis asked, concern blossoming through that single word.

Athos shook his head at what he knew his friend was thinking. “He’s well,” he said. “He’s had rest. Baudin had someone come with herbs.”

Porthos nodded. “Well, that’s good.” Athos didn’t relax. Porthos felt a stone drop in his stomach. “Isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

Aramis’s brow furrowed in question. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“We’re being freed today,” Athos said, joining them at the table, unconsciously choosing the same opening statement that the Gascon had.

Porthos’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “That’s a problem?”

“There’s a catch.” He looked at a chair and grabbed it but didn’t sit. He raised his eyes to his brothers. “D’Artagnan stays with Baudin.”

The atmosphere in the room crackled as Porthos’s temper started rising. “That’s not on,” he growled. 

Aramis agreed. “D’Artagnan _must_ know we won’t abandon him to Baudin.”

“It isn’t like that,” Athos snapped. His friends, stunned by his outburst, remained silent. “He says he _wants_ to work with Baudin. He says he failed the King and that he’s failed as a musketeer.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Porthos, shaking his head. 

“It is what he said.”

“Was there a guard present?” Aramis asked. “Perhaps he was trying to tell you something—something he couldn’t say with someone there.”

“There was,” Athos admitted, not convinced.

“Well, then!” Porthos said, as though that cleared it up.

“The guard couldn’t see his face.” Athos’s head dipped at the memory. “You know we can read that boy’s expressions like a book.” His voice dropped until he was barely audible. “He meant what he said.”

“No.” Porthos shook his head again, thinking about their youngest and how passionate he was about being a musketeer, about their brotherhood. “It’s not right.”

“If we say anything about his defection, Baudin will have us killed,” Athos explained to the others. “And that if that happens, of course his own life will be forfeit.” A sigh born of deep sadness escaped him. “I told him we wouldn’t speak of it. But that of course we would try and find a way to stop him.”

Aramis considered. “You said an herbswoman came and tended to him. Could he be drugged?”

Athos shook his head. “His eyes were clear, his voice was strong.” _Except for that final plea…_

“Did you tell him he swore an oath to the King when he got that pauldron on his shoulder?” Aramis asked.

“Yes.”

“That Baudin’s threats mean nothing to us—we can help him fight?” Porthos added.

“Of course.”

“That he’ll lose the family of brothers he has worked so hard to—”

_“Curse it, I tried it all!”_ Athos exploded. Aramis lowered his head as he saw Athos’s eyes begin to shine. Porthos just watched the senior musketeer intently. “I told him he was bringing shame on the musketeers, on his father’s name,” Athos continued more softly. “He said that he would miss our brotherhood, but he would not back down.”

A long silence fell over the trio, as each stood thinking about d’Artagnan, and what this turn of events meant to them both as musketeers, and as brothers. “I think you’re right,” Aramis said eventually.

Athos quirked an eyebrow. “How so?” He had never wanted more to be wrong, and had been counting on his brothers to prove to him that he was.

“D’Artagnan meant what he said—but he’s doing it for us. If Baudin has threatened to have us killed, what more motivation would the lad have?”

Athos growled. “He leads with his heart. A lesson not learned.” He pulled out a chair and sat heavily.

“But a soul close to God,” Aramis said, his affection for their younger brother bringing a small smile to his lips.

Another moment of quiet thought, then Porthos pulled out the chair he’d been holding, and sat down. “He’s got a plan,” he announced confidently.

Aramis looked at the almost smug expression on his brother’s face as he also sat and started splitting the bread. “You’re certain of that, are you?” he asked.

“Yep,” Porthos replied, grabbing a chunk of the offered loaf and tearing off a piece fiercely with his teeth. “That kid’s a musketeer right down to his bones. He’s never let us down before,” he reminded them. “Has he?” he challenged. He shook his head. “Not once. He has a plan. You’ll see.”

“This last may have been too much for him,” Athos persisted. Why did he insist on playing Devil’s Advocate? He cursed his propensity for finding the worst in all situations. But then, experience had taught him that the worst was usually the truth. As much as he loved d’Artagnan, it was entirely possible that he had been wrong about him. “You didn’t see him at the end of the battle for freedom from LeMaître and his men. The anger, the ferocity with which he killed the publican. And then to incur the wrath of the King after taking God knows what kind of physical punishment to keep him safe… better men have turned for less.”

“Then they weren’t better,” Porthos retorted. 

Aramis filled three cups with wine and put one of them in front of Athos. “D’Artagnan is one of the best, Athos; you’ve said so yourself. Don’t be so quick to dismiss him.”

Athos looked at his brother, grumpy with the unsolicited advice, but loath not to listen to it. He was tired. He was achy after putting up a fight last night before being captured. He was still seeing d’Artagnan’s determined face, still hearing his unbelievable decision. Yes, there had been a guard, but surely the Gascon would have found some way to communicate his true intentions if he was not speaking plainly. Surely he wouldn’t have let Athos even _begin_ to believe that he meant what he was saying. Not when he had already lost one younger brother. Not when he couldn’t stand to lose another.

“He’s bright, he’s resourceful, and he’s our brother, Athos,” Aramis reminded him gently, when he didn’t respond. “You must have faith in d’Artagnan.”

Athos snorted softly, finally allowing himself to step back from what d’Artagnan had presented and needing his friends to be right. “I have no doubt that he would do this foolish thing thinking he was saving our lives,” he conceded, a pang of heartache shimmering through him at the memory of telling their youngest that he could no longer call the musketeers _brothers_. “Baudin could be playing on his loyalty to us to keep d’Artagnan in check.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Porthos grumbled.

“Let us see if we can figure out this _plan_ , if there is one,” Athos decided. He eyed Porthos. “Subtly, of course.”

The big musketeer squirmed under the scrutiny. “Maybe you’d better leave that to Aramis, then,” he proposed. “I’d just go up and wring Baudin’s neck. And I don’t think that’s very subtle.”

“It isn’t,” Athos agreed. “But I don’t think any one of us would be disappointed if you did it.”

* TM * TM * TM *

In the stables next to the inn, Baudin studied d’Artagnan as the young man threw a blanket over his horse, taking note of his sharp moves and his tight expression as he did so. When the Gascon’s face didn’t change as he continued preparing the steed for their journey, Baudin approached.

“You’re upset, d’Artagnan,” he observed softly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” d’Artagnan said without looking at him. He placed the saddle on his horse, then pulled the strap under the animal’s body and secured it, his hands making quick, angry work of it. “Let’s get going.”

Baudin searched the young man’s face. “No regrets?” he asked.

“None.” D’Artagnan’s tone invited no further confidences, so Baudin stepped back as the Gascon grabbed his horse’s reins, intending to guide him out of the barn. “Let’s get back to Paris.”

Baudin nodded. “There will be work to do before we get there,” he said. “I will explain everything to you on the way.”

He was about to say more when Athos, Porthos, and Aramis appeared at the barn entrance. They stopped briefly when they saw d’Artagnan with Baudin, then Porthos flexed his shoulders and strode confidently toward his horse. With a nod in their direction, he said, “Nice day for a ride.”

D’Artagnan just looked at him, uncertain, then at Aramis and Athos. “He’s right,” Aramis agreed, smiling at d’Artagnan and joining Porthos near the horses. “A beautiful day to start back to Paris.” Then, as though a thought had just occurred to him, he turned a surprised look on the Gascon and Baudin. “You’re going that way, too, aren’t you?” he marveled. He smiled, pleased. “It’ll be nice to have company.”

At the musketeer’s expectant look, d’Artagnan lowered his head in shame as he struggled to find something to say. A glance up revealed the sharpshooter’s eyes still upon him, while Porthos stole a quick look and then went back to his preparations. D’Artagnan closed his eyes tightly for the briefest moment when he saw Athos still standing at the entrance, staring at him but not speaking. When he opened them again, he saw the brother he loved slowly moving in to join the others, an unreadable expression on his face, with no greeting for him, and no reprieve for the tension the arrival of the trio had created.

Sensing d’Artagnan’s unease, seeing the darkening of his shining eyes, Baudin laid a supportive hand on the young man’s back and was rewarded with a small raising of the boy’s chin. “You are welcome to join us,” Baudin said to the musketeers. “The roads can be full of bandits; traveling in a group is wise.”

“Yeah,” Porthos said. “You never know what kind of filth you’re going to encounter along the way.”

The remark was so clearly pointed at Baudin that Aramis rolled his eyes at him and shook his head. Athos kept his eyes on his work and simply said, “Protecting ourselves from random marauders is easy; it’s the attacks from within that are difficult to defend.”

Aramis aimed a sharp look at Athos then, aware that as difficult as this whole situation was for him and Porthos, it was even more deeply painful for him. Then he gazed upon d’Artagnan, who remained head bowed, shoulders sagging, and he knew this would be a heartbreaking trip home.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more angst, a bit more movement... Aramis and Porthos have their moments... Athos continues to be difficult... Read on...

Half a day later, Moreaux, Baudin’s man from the house Pierre, the thug Joubert, Baudin, d’Artagnan, the Inseparables, and four other men of Vassy had travelled long enough that their stomachs were rumbling. D’Artagnan had ridden alongside Baudin all morning, with Athos and Porthos riding on either side of the party, and Aramis in the rear. D’Artagnan had, for the most part, stayed focused on the path ahead of them, and he had said little, responding to questions when asked, otherwise staying silent. On the rare occasion, his eyes moved to the musketeers. He received a comfortingly brotherly smile from Porthos which he returned weakly, but when he glanced back at Aramis and found himself already being observed in return, he instantly averted his eyes, something the sharpshooter found disheartening.

Aramis’s spirits dropped furthest, though, when he saw the tension between d’Artagnan and Athos. On the few times that their youngest seemed to dare to look in Athos’s direction, his bravery went unrewarded. Athos never turned his head to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze, even when Aramis knew the man had to know the Gascon was trying to get his attention urgently, silently. When his soundless plea went unheeded, d’Artagnan’s expression grew even more miserable, and his hopeless eyes moved away, not even to the path ahead, Aramis noticed, but to his horse’s mane, as though incapable of rising any higher.

It was after one of these exchanges that Aramis announced rather loudly, “I think I need some wine.”

Porthos looked at him, knowing what he was doing, and shook his head in amusement, while Athos simply rolled his eyes to the sky, then agreed with a shrug. Thankfully, Baudin also saw the wisdom in stopping for awhile, and as they were at a clearing, he announced to his men that it was time for lunch. He invited the musketeers to eat with them, adding with a smile, “And there is some wine, Aramis.”

“Then how could we refuse?” Aramis smiled back, glancing at d’Artagnan as he did so, trying to show the lad that the friendliness was for his benefit. D’Artagnan merely looked back with empty, expressionless eyes, and brought his horse to a stop when the others did. 

When the party dismounted, Aramis made his way to the Gascon, who was adjusting his horse’s bridle. “A beautiful day,” he began, looking around them. “Nice scenery, gentle breeze. Perfect day for a ride.”

D’Artagnan paused for only a second at the greeting. “So you said this morning,” he reminded him offhandedly. 

Aramis nodded, saw Joubert hovering nearby. “So I did,” he agreed. More softly, he said, “I’ve been watching you, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan didn’t look at him, but his hands stopped moving. “I know.”

Aramis explained, “I want to make sure you’re recovering.”

He watched as d’Artagnan’s jaw clenched and he resumed his work. “You don’t need to look after me.”

“It’s what brothers do for brothers,” Aramis said with a shrug.

D’Artagnan’s hands gripped the leather strap he was holding tightly. “I’m not worthy of that title any more,” he said, his voice low, and dull. 

Aramis furrowed his brow. “Who told you that?” When d’Artagnan didn’t answer, he looked at what held the young man’s attention, and his eyes followed d’Artagnan’s to Athos, who was walking past, seeming to Aramis to be making a point of not looking in their direction. He saw anguish in the Gascon’s face, and once again his heart constricted. “Indulge an old medic,” he said, trying to draw d’Artagnan’s mind away from Athos. “You were struggling on the ride this morning. How is your headache, by the way?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t have—” But when he looked back at Aramis, he stopped. The look on the musketeer’s face made it plain that he wouldn’t get away with anything but the truth. “I can handle it,” d’Artagnan said finally.

“Any dizziness? Loss of balance?”

D’Artagnan sighed. “Not recently.”

“Recently. As in…?”

“Since we left Vassy.”

“That’s too recent. What about your shoulder?”

D’Artagnan quirked his lips, then told the truth. “Stiff. It aches.”

“I’ll ask Baudin to stop early today so you can rest.”

“I don’t need the rest,” d’Artagnan said pointedly.

“We all need it. It’s been a long week.” Aramis looked once again to Joubert stationed nearby. Then he said, almost inaudibly, “Athos told us Baudin threatened to kill us if we said anything. You don’t need to do this to protect us, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan looked directly at Aramis and said sharply, “I’m not doing this to protect you.” Once more his eyes roamed, this time back to Baudin’s man, who had shifted and was even closer than he had been before. “I can’t let the wrongs of the past stand uncorrected, Aramis. Baudin was right; knowing what happened in Vassy at de Guise’s hand made me sick. Those people deserve better. The King is supposed to look after _all_ the people of France, not just the ones who agree with him.”

“That’s exactly why he sent Baudin out here,” Aramis offered carefully.

“And that’s exactly why I need to help him.” One more annoyed glance at Joubert, then, strongly: “It’s the right thing to do, Aramis. If it helps keep you, Athos, and Porthos safe as well, then I’m happy. And if I’m branded a traitor and killed for what I do, I can go in peace knowing you survive, even if you do not think kindly of me.”

For a moment, Aramis had no answer. His mind raced, but no coherent thought came to him. So he simply said, “See that you rest, d’Artagnan. I’ll draw up a draught for the pain later, if you’ll let me.”

D’Artagnan met Aramis’s eyes, and the medic wondered if his kindness was a cruelty when saw something newly broken in the lad. He wished for something soothing to say, but decided it might only make things worse. “Thank you,” d’Artagnan said eventually, his voice hoarse as if he hadn’t used it in days.

Understanding that the conversation had reached an impasse, Aramis offered him a small smile and a nod, then turned and walked back to the others.

* TM * TM * TM *

“This will be the first target,” Baudin explained, pointing to a location on a map on the ground before them. D’Artagnan sat beside him on the log near the fire that night, cradling his right arm in his left in an attempt to keep his now very sore shoulder steady. A full day’s ride had done nothing to improve his wellbeing; in addition to the throbbing of his shoulder, his headache had worsened as well, and was now pounding ferociously through his whole skull, so intensely that too deep a breath nearly made him whimper in pain. It was obvious to anyone who looked that the Gascon was suffering. But if Baudin saw it, he did not mention it.

“This small village is just a little way off our route back to Paris. If we detour in the morning, you can make it your first project.”

“Project?” d’Artagnan asked. He winced.

“Yes,” Baudin confirmed. “There is much to do, d’Artagnan. I promised you that you would be a part of it, and you will.”

“What does this project entail?”

You will see, my friend. You will see.”

“You told me…” D’Artagnan gritted his teeth, took in and let out a shaky, tight breath. “…you’d explain.”

Baudin watched the young man curling further into himself but said nothing. “So I did.” He smiled and drew the map up, rolling it up as he spoke. “A series of events needs to take place, that will draw attention to the King’s lack of honor in regards to the people his precious Edict is supposed to placate. Up to now, it’s been lip service; no one in the court cares. The Cardinal certainly doesn’t, aside from being happy that we seem to be in our place. And that, my friend, will change.”

“We?” d’Artagnan asked. He blinked rapidly as his eyes started to become wet; his condition was fast deteriorating. “Are you a Huguenot, Baudin?”

A small, melancholy smile. “Not me. The woman I love. Relegated to the lower class, doomed to live a life outside the Church, as we cannot marry. Our wonderful King can see nothing wrong with that,” Baudin said, his voice hardening.

“The King can’t change the rules of marriage.”

“Perhaps not. But he can pull these people out of their misery. But as with all things, our soft-bellied sovereign must have his hand forced. And we shall do it.”

“So what’s this first project?” d’Artagnan gasped.

Baudin smiled and ignored the hitch in d’Artagnan’s breathing. “I like your keenness. There is much to tell. First—”

Baudin stopped when the sound of footsteps reached their ears and they both looked up. It was Porthos who stood above them. “Come on,” he said to d’Artagnan.

“What?” d’Artagnan asked. “Where?” He bowed his head and tried to bite back a hiss as the pain in his shoulder moved up through his neck.

“Aramis wants to see you. Says he can’t stand that look on your face any more.” The big musketeer turned his eye on Baudin. “Can’t you tell when someone’s suffering?” Any lightness in Porthos’s tone disappeared. “Probably not when you’re so wrapped up in yourself.”

Baudin met his eyes. “D’Artagnan is an adult, and a soldier. He can make decisions about his health on his own,” he said evenly.

Porthos snorted. “Clearly you don’t know him very well.” He turned away from Baudin and focused on d’Artagnan. “Come on,” he said again. “I’ll take you to him.”

But d’Artagnan had closed his eyes again, and his breaths were shallow and trembling. “I don’t… think I can stand up, to be honest,” he admitted, panting.

Porthos glared at Baudin, a murderous look in his eye, but aimed his words at d’Artagnan. “Then I’ll help you,” he said. He bent down and reached for d’Artagnan’s left arm, drawing him up slowly, stopping when the young man’s breath hitched too harshly or when he couldn’t contain a choking gasp. “Lean on me,” he murmured to the lad. He doubted d’Artagnan had a choice at this point. “You can have him back in the morning,” Porthos threw over his shoulder to Baudin. Then he led the Gascon away, humming soothing words in his ear as they went.

Baudin let them go without protest, then with a jerk of his head ordered one of him men to follow. He would never allow d’Artagnan to be alone with the musketeers again.

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos looked up from his inner musings when he heard d’Artagnan stir and awaken. He took note of the Gascon’s perplexed look as he tried to get his bearings, and when d’Artagnan’s eyes found Athos’s, the older man stared back, his chest constricting as he tried to think of what to say. Yesterday had been one of the hardest days of Athos’s life. He had seen d’Artagnan trying to gauge him on the road, knew he was hoping Athos would return his pleading looks. But he could not. No matter what Porthos and Aramis said, they had not seen the look in d’Artagnan’s eyes when he told Athos of his decision. He loved the young man fiercely, much more than he expected, and certainly more than he had intended, and he wanted to believe that d’Artagnan had some kind of plan, but was equally afraid that he did not. And when he thought of the look on d’Artagnan’s face when Athos stripped him of his brotherhood—of truly the only family the lad had in the world—he felt himself fill once again with a cold fear and a paralyzing anguish that he could not eradicate with words.

So now, after solemnly but reluctantly taking his turn staying with d’Artagnan in case he woke and needed anything, Athos found himself face to face with his one-time protégé, and unable to do much more than look at him. Eventually, he found his voice, but simply said, “I’ll get Aramis,” and he stood up from his place at the extinguished camp fire and shuffled away, throwing a sideways glare at Moreaux, who was observing from nearby, and doing his best to block out d’Artagnan’s intense, pleading look, and failing miserably.

He found Aramis under a tree, checking his provisions. “D’Artagnan is awake,” Athos said. Then he sat down heavily beside him. 

Aramis nodded, kept rearranging his pack. “How is he?”

“He is awake.”

Aramis sighed but kept his eyes in his bag. “You didn’t speak to him?” he asked, knowing the answer. Athos didn’t reply. “Athos.”

“Leave it, Aramis.”

“The lad is pining for you, Athos. You know how he looks up to you; surely you could see—”

 _“Leave it,_ Aramis,” Athos replied more strongly. 

The sharpshooter sighed, shook his head, and stood up, throwing his pack at Athos’s feet. “Make yourself useful,” he said. “Porthos is checking the horses. We should be on our way soon.”

Aramis turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Athos just looking after him.

* TM * TM * TM *

“I was _told_ you woke up,” Aramis greeted, as he approached d’Artagnan. The young man was sitting up, still where Athos had left him, frowning.

“It’s late.”

Aramis nodded and offered a cheerful smile. “Not very. There’s just enough time for some bread and cheese,” he said, holding out what he’d brought with him. “Are you hungry?”

D’Artagnan considered. “A little.” He took a chunk of bread from Aramis, who sat beside him and nibbled on a bit of cheese. 

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Better. I don’t remember falling asleep here.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did you give me something?”

“I gave you plenty.” Aramis admitted unapologetically. As d’Artagnan considered a response, the medic added, “Your body needs time to recover, d’Artagnan. You were in a very poor condition when Porthos brought you to me last night.”

“I was just tired.”

Aramis chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “If you insist. I was just trying to avoid you being that… _tired_ … again tonight.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan mumbled. He tried flexing his right arm, nodded, rotated his shoulder gently. “That’s much better. Your poultice was miraculous.”

“Good. I believe Baudin wants to head off soon. He’s had his lackey standing watch most of the night.”

“I’d better get ready, then,” d’Artagnan replied. He finished the last bit of bread, then stood up and brushed himself off. 

“D’Artagnan.”

The Gascon stopped and looked back down to his friend. 

“About Athos. He…” The rest of his words died in his throat when he saw the expectant look that rose onto the young man’s face, mixed with open hurt.

“You don’t have to make excuses for Athos. I understand. He feels betrayed. I would, too.” D’Artagnan looked at the trees, at the sky, out to the horizon, anywhere but Aramis. “I’m surprised you and Porthos are still talking to me.”

“Old habits die hard,” Aramis quipped with the lift of an eyebrow.

“You won’t approve of what I do from now on, Aramis. And I know you’ll want to try and find a way to stop me. But you can’t.” D’Artagnan looked at the ground, clearly deep in thought. “I appreciate your brotherhood, Aramis. It’s meant everything to me.” A pause. A long breath through his mouth. Another look to the ground, perhaps for grounding, perhaps for courage. Then he looked straight at Aramis, and, his voice subdued, he said, “You need to take a lesson from Athos now. Tell Porthos... that you and he need to stay away from me.”

Aramis kept his eyes locked on d’Artagnan’s, stunned and trying to read any message in them that he could not express with Baudin’s man so close by. But like Athos, he realized Moreaux could not see the lad’s face, and he could see nothing in his eyes but sincerity and the pain of loss. He felt a pang of fear for the first time that perhaps Athos had been right in his assessment of d’Artagnan’s intentions. His doubt and dread intensified when d’Artagnan turned and walked away.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for following, leaving kudos, and most of all commenting!  
> More happening, things are heating up!  
> Please let me know what you think is going on!

“That’s the target, d’Artagnan,” murmured Baudin, as he and the Gascon stood under a tree near their horses. He nodded toward a building that appeared to be an inn, with people coming in and out at regular intervals. Whenever the door opened, the sound of animated conversation met their ears. Clearly, this was the center of commerce for this little village.

“Target?”

“When the sun is at its hottest, it is quite crowded,” Baudin said. “That’s when we must act.” He squared his shoulders. “I hope you’re up for it, lad. It’ll be the first blow for freedom.”

D’Artagnan furrowed his brow. “What do you want to do?”

“This village has a strong Protestant presence. Hidden, of course, because they can do nothing else. An incident here will reflect badly on the King. Especially when it is followed by others.”

“An incident,” d’Artagnan repeated.

“There is a wedding tomorrow of a highly-bred and well-loved young man, and fireworks are planned. There is gunpowder stored nearby. We have organized access to it, and you can set things in motion during the midday meal period.”

“You want me to blow it up,” d’Artagnan realized, his words, though almost whispered, telegraphing alarm. “Baudin, these are innocent people!”

“You’re a soldier, d’Artagnan. This is a war. Bloodshed is inevitable.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, disbelief and distress clear on his face. “You’re angry at the King for not protecting the Protestants, and yet you’re asking me to kill them.”

“It’s a necessary evil in this battle for freedom.”

“Not this way, Baudin,” d’Artagnan pressed. “How many followers do you think you’ll have once they figure out you’re using them as fodder for your cause?”

“They would agree with me, d’Artagnan. They feel strongly about this, as do I.”

D’Artagnan looked back to the unsuspecting inn, and his stomach flipped when he saw a young girl coming out with people who were likely her parents. “I doubt that girl has thought much about it,” he said. “Nor that her parents would consider her as expendable as you do.”

Baudin looked at d’Artagnan, wondered about his persistence. He sighed. “Perhaps you’re too naïve for this.”

“I’m _not_ naïve,” d’Artagnan argued. “I’m a soldier. Soldiers fight battles and kill those who would seek to harm those they protect. The people in that inn don’t seek to harm you, Baudin. There is no reason to kill them, no reason that will ever make sense to me.” Baudin looked unconvinced. D’Artagnan continued. “I’m not saying we don’t need to do something. But killing these people isn’t the answer.” He looked around them, and finally laid eyes on a large barn about a hundred yards away. He nodded in its direction. “Those stables over there,” he said. “No doubt it holds the livelihoods of many people in this village. Blacksmith. Ironsmith. Leatherworkers. Not to mention the horses. _That’s_ your target, Baudin. Killing the people themselves won’t accomplish what you think it will. It’ll backfire and you’ll achieve nothing. Take away their trade, their way of supporting their families, and you’ll find them more likely to support your revolution.”

He looked at Baudin expectantly. The other man stayed quiet for a moment, considering the Gascon’s words. He looked from the inn to the barn and back again. Eventually, he made his decision. “You are wise beyond your years, d’Artagnan. And perhaps more objective than I in this matter. I am too close to the cause; too hot-blooded. As a Gascon, I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

D’Artagnan offered a small smile. 

“Very well. The barn it shall be. Joubert will get you to the gunpowder. The rest of the materials are in the saddlebags. We’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

“Baudin,” asked d’Artagnan, “why me? Why is it so important to have me on your side?”

A knowing smile bloomed on Baudin’s lips. “Louis trusts you, d’Artagnan. You are his champion. The person whose ideals he secretly aspires to. Imagine the blow when he discovers you are not the man he believes you to be.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “He doesn’t want to be me. I’m a disappointment to him. He said as much after the Dauphin’s christening. This will only be a confirmation for him that his displeasure is not misplaced.”

“In that you are wrong, my friend. Despite what he said to you, I know for a fact that he admires you. Envies you might be a better word. For all his pomposity, Louis is a simple man. His needs are the same as they have always been.”

“What—the total adoration and subservience of all he meets?” quipped d’Artagnan.

Baudin laughed. “That country cynicism.” He put his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Never let his ill-chosen words silence your spirit, d’Artagnan. Louis was a foolish man to demean you as he did. You will never be so undervalued by me.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan replied, his voice choked with sudden emotion.

Baudin noticed, and grasped d’Artagnan’s shoulders a little tighter. “Come. Let us find Joubert together. Then the real work will begin.”

* TM * TM * TM *

“Look’it them over there,” grumbled Porthos. He scowled as he watched Baudin put his arm around d’Artagnan. “Getting’ all cozy-like. I don’t like the look of this.”

Athos stood beside him in the middle of the village green, watching dispassionately from under his hat. “I thought you were certain d’Artagnan had a plan.”

“He _does_ ,” said Porthos. “That doesn’t mean I have to like what it looks like.”

“Perhaps it _is_ what it looks like,” Athos offered.

“Nah,” Porthos said, shaking his head slightly but keeping the frown on his face. “Nah.”

Aramis looked fondly at his friend. He was glad that Porthos still had immense faith in their youngest companion. He himself was still shaken after their encounter this morning, and although he had told the others what d’Artagnan had said, he had not told them of the cold fear that filled him, or how ashamed he was to feel it. His mind flashed back to the time when d’Artagnan had reluctantly voiced an unpleasant but very real possibility about Porthos, and how he had grabbed the surprised Gascon and pinned him forcibly against a wagon, seeing red at the idea that the lad could wonder if his brother had killed someone, even by accident. Now, wondering if a deliberate offense could be possible of d’Artagnan, Aramis felt a heavy sense of guilt along with his fear; he had the same doubts about the lad. The only difference between the two men was that d’Artagnan had actually spoken of his concerns. 

That made him more honest, Aramis thought briefly, and remembering the shock and the flicker of fear in the young man’s eyes that day, he again filled with shame. How could d’Artagnan, this mere child who had grown into manhood right before their very eyes, who so fiercely believed in justice, who had put aside his own anger and fear to clear Athos’s name even when in the grip of fearsome grief—how could d’Artagnan turn against the King? It wasn’t possible, he thought. It couldn’t be possible. And yet this very morning d’Artagnan had made it quite clear: stay away. And Aramis had found himself nearly choking on his own heart. The d’Artagnan he knew would never betray his brothers, his honor, his sovereign. And yet he harbored a twinge of doubt, and the shame he felt whenever he considered it was nearly overwhelming. Is that how d’Artagnan had felt when he spoke up about Porthos? 

“Perhaps we should follow,” he suggested now, as d’Artagnan and Baudin moved away from the trees.

Porthos grunted an agreement. “That guy makes my skin crawl,” he said. He looked at Athos. “Coming?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Athos responded drily. 

The trio started to move when two of Baudin’s men came and confronted them. “You leave Baudin and the boy alone,” one of them said.

Athos shot a quick look at the other two musketeers. “I beg your pardon?” he asked calmly.

“I said you leave them alone,” the strongly built man repeated. “They have things to do. And you don’t need to be involved. The boy’s not your puppy to come claim for wandering off. Baudin will take care of him.” The man smiled as though another thought came to him. He didn’t voice it. “He takes care of us all.”

Porthos’s nostrils flared in anger, and Athos saw his friend’s hands clench into fists in frustration. With only the barest of touches, he brought the big man’s temper down to a simmer. “We have no need to claim d’Artagnan,” he said. “He is free to do as he wishes.” Pointedly he added, “As are we. If you gentlemen will excuse us, we’re going to tend our horses and find refreshment.” He sniffed. “Perhaps you should find a public bath.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, and Aramis and Porthos followed. Baudin’s men watched for a moment but then, apparently satisfied that their words had had their intended effect, they walked away. But though their words had not fazed the musketeers, the interruption was enough to accomplish one thing: they had lost track of d’Artagnan, and scanning the area, they could find no trace of him or of Baudin. Athos scowled as they stopped to reconsider.

“I could’ve flattened them on my own,” Porthos grumbled.

“It would have achieved nothing,” Athos said. “If we’re serious about finding out what d’Artagnan might have in mind, we can’t have Baudin’s entire entourage following us around.”

Porthos grunted, which Athos wasn’t sure was agreement, but which certainly counted as acceptance. 

“Now let us do what we said we were doing; the horses need tending, and I need wine.”

“That’s becoming a theme,” Porthos murmured. Athos just looked at him then headed to the barn. The big man turned toward Aramis, and saw that his friend was still scouring the small village, looking for any sign of their youngest. “Aramis,” he said softly. The sharpshooter’s worried eyes finally fixed on his friend. “The kid’s smart. He’ll be all right.”

Porthos wished for confidence to fill his friend’s eyes, but it didn’t. Instead, Aramis offered him a wavering smile.

“He’s got a plan, Aramis,” Porthos repeated. “I just know he’s got a plan.”

* TM * TM * TM *

“It’s done,” d’Artagnan said, standing up and wiping his hands together to get off the last of the dirt. “It just needs to be set off.”

Baudin nodded, satisfied, as the young man came up beside him. “Fine,” he said. He clapped a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of that at midday. Most people will be away then. And they’ll have nothing to come back to. You’ve done well, d’Artagnan. I wasn’t sure in the beginning, but now I’m positive you are one of the keys to the success of this plan.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “Everybody wins, right?” he asked.

“Everybody but the King and those who serve him,” Baudin replied. 

“The musketeers must remain safe,” d’Artagnan reminded him. “I won’t hurt them, Baudin. And I won’t let _you_ hurt them either. They’ve stayed silent; they remain unharmed.”

“Of course, d’Artagnan. Nothing underhand, I promise you. If they come at us as soldiers…”

“Then that’s fair game. But no ambushes,” d’Artagnan warned. “If you try it, I’ll kill you myself.”

The two remained eye to eye for a few seconds. Baudin took in the sincerity and determination reflected in d’Artagnan’s eyes and understood the message he was sending. Finally, Baudin said, “My boys will keep watch here. Go get something to eat, d’Artagnan. Then come back in an hour and get us started on the road to justice.”

D’Artagnan nodded and stepped away. He looked to make sure no one could see him emerging from behind the barn, then walked nonchalantly out toward the inn. 

* TM * TM * TM *

After running some water from a nearby well over his face, d’Artagnan went inside the inn for a bite to eat. He immediately spied the musketeers sitting at a table in the corner. The place was crowded and there were few places to sit, but he didn’t try and approach them, even though they saw each other. When they didn’t look away from him, he offered a small nod and an even smaller smile, and then sought out another spot where he could retire to, and settled on a bench almost directly across the room. He asked the woman who approached him for a bit of stew and bread, then leaned back against the wall and lowered his head, letting his hair curtain his eyes, so he didn’t have to feel that his every move was being watched.

Still, he couldn’t help but look for himself, and when he dared peer out from underneath his locks, there was always at least one Inseparable looking at him—usually Aramis; occasionally Porthos; never, he noticed, Athos. He felt a small stab in his heart.

His food came quickly and d’Artagnan dove right into it, not looking up once as he did, and planning to leave as quickly as possible. He raised his head when he saw a hand come down on the table in front of him, and stared straight at Athos.

D’Artagnan’s heart leapt into his throat as the man’s ice blue eyes seemed to penetrate him. But the musketeer’s face was expressionless, and he said nothing. D’Artagnan swallowed and held his gaze until Porthos nudged Athos into coming with them, and the trio moved on without saying a word or sparing him another look. Feeling the adrenaline drain out of him as quickly as it had appeared, his shoulders sagged as he watched them walk out the door.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, so sorry for the long delay in this chapter. Real life—how frustrating! But I’ve been preparing for and am now performing in a show, and this had to really play out carefully, so… it took time. Thank you SO much for your reviews, favorites, follows, kudos… they are ALL appreciated. This chapter is short, but it plays an important part in the story, and so now I can do this and move on to the rest… please let me know what you think of what our young musketeer has done!

Crouched on the ground in the trees behind the barn, D’Artagnan glanced at the two men keeping lookout nearby, and then muttered to Baudin beside him, “I would think I’ve proven myself by now.” He turned back to the fuse he was preparing.

“You have, d’Artagnan.”

“Then why the constant chaperone? I’m more than capable of handling this myself.”

“It isn’t about competence, lad. I want to witness our first act of sedition. This is the perfect beginning to our cause.”

“You’ve witnessed it,” d’Artagnan growled. “Now leave me alone. You don’t think I saw your man at the inn when I had my meal? Or when I was cleaning my horse’s tack? You don’t trust me.”

“D’Artagnan, I do trust you. I _do_.” Baudin put a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It’s the musketeers I don’t trust.”

“I told you they won’t say anything,” d’Artagnan said crossly. “I’m standing here doing exactly what I promised you I would do. There’s nothing they can say that will change the seriousness of what I’ve already done. Now trust me to handle it or leave me out of it, Baudin. I’m sick of being watched like a small child.”

“You’re on edge today,” Baudin observed.

“Keeps me alive,” d’Artagnan snapped back. He stopped his work and looked at Baudin. “The musketeers aren’t happy that I’m working with you. They’re just as much a danger to me now as your men were. Or _are_ ,” he amended. 

“Perhaps, d’Artagnan, it is _you_ who don’t trust _me_. I will ensure you are safe.”

“Forgive me for doubting you,” the Gascon replied sourly. “My head still aches when the sun is too bright. It makes me forget how _safe_ you all are.” 

Baudin smiled ruefully. “You don’t have to fear that any longer. You’re one of us now.”

D’Artagnan’s expression hardened. “I’m not one of you, Baudin. Or one of your men. They follow you like sheep and do whatever you tell them, right or wrong. I promise you I won’t be so easy to persuade. If I think you’re wrong—or just plain _stupid_ —I’ll tell you.”

“D’Artagnan, it’s your argumentativeness that makes me trust you all the more.” Baudin smiled broadly and stood up. “Finish your work here. I’ll meet you at the horses. We will leave in an hour.”

The Gascon offered a quick smile of acknowledgement and watched Baudin walk away. Then he turned back and continued his work.

* TM * TM * TM *

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos stood near the front of the barn. Having brought their horses out, they were ostensibly preparing for an afternoon’s ride. In reality, they were trying to keep an eye on their youngest. “What do you suppose is so interesting back there?” Aramis wondered aloud.

“They’ve certainly been back there a long time,” Porthos agreed, securing his saddle bag securely to his mount.

Baudin walked past them without seeming to take notice of their presence. The musketeers looked at each other. “He seems cheerful,” Athos said distastefully.

“Where are his thugs, and d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked, concern creasing his brow. “Should we go look for him?”

“Let’s give it a few minutes,” Athos suggested. “Remember, he’s gone with them willingly. If he has a plan, we could put it in jeopardy if we move too soon. If he hasn’t…” The others looked at him unhappily. “…then we’re not putting him in any danger by waiting.”

Porthos shuffled his feet and kicked the dirt around. “I hate it when he’s right,” he muttered to Aramis.

“It really is a rather irritating trait,” Aramis said agreeably.

“Try it from my end some time,” Athos suggested dryly. Porthos narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if he’d just been insulted.

They continued slowly preparing for their departure when Porthos saw d’Artagnan walking in their direction from behind the barn. He gave a quick grunt to the others, who looked up and watched as the young musketeer came closer and closer. Walking purposefully but not quickly, his path moved ever nearer to the trio, until he came within a yard of their mounts. Without stopping or even looking in their direction, he addressed them _sotto voce_ as he passed.

_“Get everyone and everything away from the barn in the next twenty minutes.”_

Then before they could even react, he was gone. The Inseparables looked at each other, trying to figure out what had just happened, and then Aramis said, “Whatever he’s talking about, we’d better take him at his word. Let’s move the horses and then figure out a quick, but subtle, way of doing what he said.”

Porthos shook his head ruefully. “There’s that word again.”

Aramis grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Just move slowly.”

* TM * TM * TM *

If Porthos’s stone-faced stare hadn’t been enough, the big, gloved hand he put on the man’s chest certainly was. He shook his head, a “Don’t go in there” signal in regards to the barn behind him. 

The villager looked about to protest, when Porthos lowered his head, leaving his furrowed brow to absorb the brunt of his frown. The man turned on his heel and walked away swiftly.

Aramis approached from his look out spot a bit further away, where he’d been watching for any sign of movement from Baudin or his men. “I thought we agreed on subtle,” he reminded his friend.

“I didn’t say _nothin’_!” Porthos protested.

Aramis looked at his friend doubtfully for a split second, then sighed and nodded, knowing that it took little for his brother to intimidate people. “How much time do we have?” Porthos asked.

“Not long,” Aramis replied. “Everything out of there?”

Porthos nodded. “All the horses. Most of the gear. Wish we knew what he was talking about.”

Athos appeared from inside the barn. “There’s nothing dangerous in there,” he said. He surveyed the area quickly. “Has anyone seen d’Artagnan?”

“Not since he passed us by,” Aramis answered. 

“Have either of you made it around the back?”

“No.” Porthos shook his head. “There’s always been one of Baudin’s men watching us. No excuse to go back there without attracting attention.”

“We’d better get away from here,” Athos said. “Whatever d’Artagnan was referring to, I’m certain it’s not good.”

The others agreed. After a brief discussion, however, Porthos handed the reins of his horse to Aramis, saying he would stay behind to make sure that no one else tried to go inside the building. Though met with unhappy looks from the others, they all knew that there was a chance something would go terribly wrong here in a minute or two, and the innocent townspeople needed to be protected. After making Porthos promise to get himself to safety as quickly as possible, Aramis and Athos walked away.

* TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened when, from his perch in a distant tree, he saw Athos and Aramis leaving Porthos behind at the entrance to the barn.

“No,” he breathed, frowning. “No, no, no, no, no.”

He scrambled down from the tree and started moving swiftly from Baudin’s group and toward the barn. Joubert pulled him up by the arm. “Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

D’Artagnan pinned the man down with a deadly stare. “The deal was the musketeers remain safe. I’m getting Porthos away from there.”

“You aren’t going down there.” Joubert’s grip tightened on the Gascon’s arm.

“Let go of me,” d’Artagnan threatened, ready to act on his words, “or I’ll kill you.”

Joubert locked eyes with the young man but didn’t move. Just as d’Artagnan reached behind his back for his main gauche, Baudin’s voice reached them from behind. “Let him go, Joubert.”

The two of them turned to see Baudin approaching. “We have an agreement,” the man explained. A small nod and d’Artagnan angrily shook Joubert’s now-loose hand away. “We will also honor it. He knows what he must adhere to. Go, d’Artagnan.”

With a final glare at Joubert, d’Artagnan burst down the hill and into the middle of the village square. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aramis and Athos watching him from nearby, but he didn’t have time to acknowledge them. 

“Porthos!” he called, when he was sure he was within earshot.

He saw the big man’s head turn in his direction, and even from a distance, d’Artagnan could see a frown cross his face as he tried to figure out why the Gascon was calling his name. “Porthos!” d’Artagnan called again, still running. “Get away from there!” he shouted, almost close enough now to reach out and grab him. Only a few more steps! “Get away—!”

Then the ground trembled beneath them, a large explosion erupted before his eyes, and as debris began to fly, d’Artagnan’s legs flew out from under him, and his world went black.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your reviews and thoughts. Believe it or not, you do have an impact on what happens. I need to know what you're thinking when you read...  
> This is the longest chapter yet! More to come...

Aramis watched with a mix of fascination and horror as d’Artagnan bolted past them and up the hill toward where Porthos was standing guard outside the barn door. His heart went into his throat when he heard the Gascon yelling a warning to the big musketeer, and then his mind spun as he watched the walls and roof of the barn strain and explode toward the sky—and toward the people around the structure. He saw his friends fall, and, oblivious to the shouting of the villagers around them, and not even feeling the steadying touch of Athos’s hand on his arm, he started running.

Racing for Porthos, he threw a look toward Athos, who he somehow instinctively knew was following him, and ordered over the roar of the falling debris and the ensuing fire, “Check on d’Artagnan!” Reaching his fallen best friend, he immediately tried to grip a large barn door that had flown off in full and pushed him to the ground as it blew out, but he was unable to move it more than a few inches. He looked as he lifted to see if Porthos would try and get out from under it, but his friend was lying prone on the ground, and he remained still. Loath to let the timber press down again on the man, he looked over to where Athos was standing over d’Artagnan’s still form and shouted, “Athos!”

Looking up, Athos saw Aramis struggling with the debris and immediately ran to help. He grasped the wood and said to Aramis, “Pull him out—hurry!”

Then while Athos held up the timber, his arms shaking with the effort, Aramis very carefully dragged Porthos out from underneath it. “He’s clear!” he shouted, when he was certain it was safe for Athos to drop the door. And drop it he did, almost instantly, and he knelt beside Porthos and the medic.

“How is he?” Athos asked.

Aramis’s hands were running up and down the length of Porthos’s back, checking his arms, his legs, and carefully looking at a cut on the back of his head which was bleeding, albeit sluggishly. “I can’t tell yet.” He frowned. “Head wound isn’t as bad as it looks. Arms appear all right. It’s his back and shoulders I’m worried about; they took the brunt of that door.” He leaned in close to his friend’s ear. “Porthos,” he called softly. There was no response. _“Porthos,”_ Aramis persisted.

Porthos’s brow furrowed minutely, but he made no sound.

“Brother, we’re here. Tell me where you’re hurt.”

But Porthos’s features smoothed out and he stayed silent. Aramis shook his head as he pressed gently on his friend’s back in examination. “I’ll need to check him out somewhere else; I can’t do much here.” Gripping Porthos’s arm—whether to reassure the wounded man or himself, he wasn’t certain—he started to look around for something on which to carry him. “We need to get him to the inn. See if there’s a piece of timber we can use.” 

Athos nodded and started scouring their immediate surroundings. A villager who, heading toward the barn to help fight the ensuing fire, had hesitated when he saw Aramis and Athos aiding their fallen friend, approached, his eyes full of fear, and concern. “Monsieur, how can I help?”

“We need water—boiling. A table to examine him on. A bed. And medical supplies,” Aramis replied.

The man nodded. “You’ll have them. I nearly went in that barn before—this one stopped me,” he said with a gesture toward Porthos.

“He does that,” Athos said flatly.

“Did you musketeers know something was going on?” the man asked.

“Just suspected,” Aramis answered tightly. “Go, get the things we need and prepare a room at the inn. Downstairs. And private.”

The man nodded and took off. Athos pulled a piece of timber small enough to carry but big enough to support Porthos out from under some debris. “Here,” he said as he brought it back to Aramis.

“Good,” Aramis said with a nod, trying gently to shift Porthos so they could move him smoothly. “How’s d’Artagnan?” he asked.

A mask of detachment came over Athos’s face as he said simply, “He’s alive.”

Aramis paused at the lifelessness in his friend’s voice. Athos’s feelings for d’Artagnan had always been strong, and protective. Now, he seemed content to just let the Gascon go. It saddened him, and it worried him, just as the lad’s current state was a concern. “Was he awake? Were you able to wake him up?”

“You called me; I came running.” Athos took in the flicker of reproach in Aramis’s eyes. “He was breathing easily. There are people with him now. He’ll be looked after.”

Aramis tried not to think that Athos was abandoning their youngest. No matter what had happened, he clung to the idea that d’Artagnan was doing something noble, not underhanded, and he and the others just weren’t privy to the details yet. And in his mind’s eye he could still see the lad racing toward Porthos, shouting to get him away from the barn, all while likely knowing what was about to happen, and not thinking of his own safety. “He warned us, Athos. And he tried to protect Porthos.”

“He probably set the explosives.”

Aramis had no answer for that, so he turned away quietly and continued to prepare their fallen comrade for the move.

* TM * TM * TM *

Before he even opened his eyes, d’Artagnan knew he was waking up to the worst headache he’d ever had in his life. In the darkness, he could feel a hammering so severe and so merciless that it made him whimper, and the jostling caused by the hands he could feel on him made bubbles of light pop and fade in his brain, threatening to send him back into unconsciousness. 

Fighting off his desire to just fall back into blackness, he tried to speak and found that all he could manage was a groaning sound, which led to more persistent jostling, which led to a louder groan. Eventually, reluctantly, and ever so slowly, he opened his eyes a crack, and his skull split wide open, changing the groan into a soft, plaintive cry of pain. 

Voices that had been just white noise, adding to the pounding in his head, came into sharper focus, and he could hear people coaxing him to speak, to look at them, to tell them he was uninjured. Keeping his eyes half closed, he forced himself to whisper a reply. “I’m all right,” he said, the words echoing painfully in his skull. He didn’t know if that was true, not really—he hadn’t taken stock of anything except the powerful hurt in his head. But he wanted them to stop touching him, stop talking to him, and hoped somehow it might help.

For the most part, it did, although he could still feel someone holding onto his arm. He closed his eyes and immediately felt a hand whispering across his forehead. _Owwww… Stop._ Ignoring the well-intended ministrations, he tried to remember what happened. Thinking too hard made his head hurt more, and he took quick, shallow breaths through his nose to dial down the discomfort. He tried again, more cautiously this time, and his mind sifted slowly through his memories until it came across the perplexed face of Porthos staring at him from the front of the barn.

_The barn. The blast._

_“Porthos!”_ D’Artagnan instantly jerked himself up, and immediately regretted both the outburst and the movement. He gritted his teeth and keened, curling into himself desperately as his head exploded in a torrent of agony. This time the hands on him stopped him from keeling over and kept him steady. He could feel them trying to force him back down, but he resisted. “Porthos,” he whispered, and when he could, he raised his head and tried supporting himself by bracing his hands on the ground. It worked, albeit shakily, and he struggled to stand.

As though knowing they wouldn’t be able to restrain him, d’Artagnan found that he had support as he tried to find his feet. Two sets of hands, one set on either arm, gripped tightly as he swayed, and it wasn’t until he finally lifted his head and managed to withstand the knife jabs that accompanied his eyes being open that he felt the hands release him. A very short survey in impossibly bright sunlight gave him the direction of the barn, and as he lowered his head in deference to his condition, he caught sight of Athos and Aramis on the hill, and Porthos _on the ground._

He took a step, faster than he should have, and he swayed again, dangerously close to collapsing. The hands were immediately back upon him, but now he was desperate to reach the musketeers, and he murmured unintelligible words of thanks to the people he still could not look at, pulled himself away from their grasp and, more carefully this time, staggered toward what was left of the barn.

* TM * TM * TM *

Aramis and Athos were startled out of their concentration by the hoarse, shaky voice. “How is he?”

They looked up from the makeshift gurney where Aramis was arranging Porthos for the move into the bloody, dirty face of d’Artagnan. Exchanging a look with Aramis, Athos replied stoically, “We’ll find out. He has a hard head. We can only hope hard enough.”

“I didn’t… want any of you hurt,” d’Artagnan managed weakly, his voice harsh as though he hadn’t spoken in days.

Athos tilted his head, his tone hard, as though teaching a lesson to an inattentive pupil who’d been caught sleeping in the back of the class. “We’re musketeers. We have a duty to protect the King’s subjects. You warned us there was danger, and we kept the people away from it. Someone had to assume the risk.”

Aramis felt a flutter of concern as d’Artagnan closed his eyes momentarily and seemed to begin to lose consciousness. But the moment passed as quickly as it came—no doubt due mainly to the lad’s stubbornness. “’m sorry,” he almost whispered; whether in deference to his injuries, or to the shame that openly blossomed on his face, the medic couldn’t tell. D’Artagnan looked back at Porthos through half-lidded eyes “Can I help?” he asked.

Aramis’s heart couldn’t help but warm at the question. Bloodied and clearly unwell himself, their youngest still thought of Porthos first. Typical, he thought—in spite of everything.

But Athos’s answer shattered his good feelings. “You’ve done enough.”

The words weren’t bitter, or angry. Just a statement of fact. But Aramis knew they would still hurt the young man. He couldn’t help but notice how d’Artagnan’s already precariously upright shoulders drooped, or how his eyes fell even further to the ground. There was a wall between him and the Inseparables, something he never could have imagined after the lad’s first few days among them.

“We’re taking him to the inn,” he told d’Artagnan, his tone not unkind. “We’ll know more later.”

Clearly not needed, or perhaps wanted, here, d’Artagnan offered the smallest incline of his head as acknowledgement, murmured another apology mostly under his breath, then turned and started to stumble away. Aramis nearly jumped and ran to him as he watched the young man lurch alarmingly at one point. But d’Artagnan stopped, gripped his head, and then, as before, the moment seemed to pass, and he continued on his way.

“Let’s get Porthos to the inn,” Athos said, pulling Aramis away from his momentary distraction.

Nodding at the sense in Athos’s words, Aramis stood up, and the two lifted the gurney holding their brother, and moved away from the scene.

* TM * TM * TM *

“Well, I don’t know how he did it, but he hasn’t broken anything but three ribs,” Aramis announced about thirty minutes later. Porthos still hadn’t woken up, but at least now, with him lying on the large wooden table, Aramis was able to look him over properly.

“One of the benefits of being built like a barn door,” Athos surmised; “when you get hit by a real one, you don’t suffer as much.”

Aramis offered a genuine smile to Athos at that; the dry wit was a relief after the tension of the last hour and a half. “There’ll be bruising and soreness, especially on the back and the left shoulder, but the ribs are the worst of it. I’m going to wrap them before he wakes up,” he said. “I won’t want to be that close later on; a bear with a headache is not good company.”

“You don’t seem concerned that he hasn’t awakened,” Athos noted.

“He hit his head, but he’s been moving under my hands. I think he’s just avoiding me because I stripped him down to his braies to remove a splinter from his thigh,” the medic quipped with a shrug. 

“I warned you,” came a groggy voice from the table.

Aramis turned at once to his friend. “Porthos,” he breathed in relief, more worried than he had let on. “Fine of you to rejoin us, my friend.”

“I tol’ you I’d skin you next time you touched my legs,” the musketeer mumbled.

“I thought it was worth the risk,” Aramis replied. He bent down to look at his friend’s face. “Open your eyes.”

“I like it like this,” Porthos muttered without much real protest in his voice.

“I’m sure you, do but I want to see your pupils. So open your eyes,” Aramis insisted.

Dark brown eyes peered out at the medic. “Happy now?”

Aramis studied his friend’s face, then nodded. “Delighted.”

“Good.” Porthos’s eyes slid shut again.

“I’m going to wrap your ribs.”

“Then put my trousers back on.”

“How about we stick to the sheet instead while they get repaired?” Porthos grunted in reply. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by the broad side of a barn.”

Athos nodded. “Very close. It was the door.”

“That’s nothin’,” Porthos mumbled. 

Aramis and Athos exchanged grins, then Aramis turned to the nearby supplies and started drawing up a concoction for the pain he knew his friend was in, which would only get worse when he started wrapping his ribs. After a few seconds of silence, Aramis thought the man had fallen asleep, so he was surprised when Porthos spoke again.

“What happened to d’Artagnan?”

Athos threw a look at Aramis. “What do you mean?”

Porthos huffed out a breath. “He was runnin’ at me… screamin’ when the thing blew…”

“He’s upright and walking, Porthos,” Aramis said, with a warning glance at Athos. “I think he may have taken some splinters and been caught in the force of the explosion, but you are the one I’m worried about.” Porthos grunted out an acknowledgement. “Since you’re awake now, this would be much easier if you sat up. Can you manage it?”

Aramis expected a protest, and the way Porthos quirked his lips for a second made him believe that he’d get one, but instead the but musketeer opened on eye and muttered, “Help me up.” And so Aramis and Athos moved in and slowly, carefully, aided Porthos so he was sitting with his legs swung over the table. It wasn’t without difficulty, or without an occasional curse or a hitch in his breathing as he moved his shoulders, but once he was up, Porthos braced his hands on the table and nodded. “Do it,” he said. 

“Have this first,” Aramis said, holding out the poppy mixture he’d concocted.

“That stuff’s disgusting,” Porthos said with a scowl.

“But it will help you,” Aramis countered; “and me. You swing hard when you’re in pain.”

Porthos shot Aramis a dirty look, then took the brew and swallowed it down, grimacing at the taste as he did so. He handed back the bowl stiffly. “Satisfied?”

Aramis nodded. “Perfectly.”

“Now that we know you’re going to live, I’m going to go talk with some of the townspeople,” Athos said; “see what they’re saying about this.”

“What are you going to tell them?” Porthos asked. 

“Nothing.”

And he was gone. Porthos let Aramis do his work quietly and skillfully, grunting or pulling away occasionally, but never lashing out at the medic, which both of them considered a good thing. Eventually, as Aramis worked his way around his back, rubbing in a salve to help with the coming bruises, Porthos spoke up. “I heard what you said,” he told his friend.

Aramis paused for just a second, then continued securing the final wrap around his friend’s torso. “Good,” he said. “That means your head’s not been hit too hard.”

“No. I mean about d’Artagnan,” Porthos replied. “You said you _think_ he was caught in the force of the explosion, and you _think_ he took some wood. Why don’t you _know?”_

Aramis considered the guilt he felt when he watched the Gascon approach them so unsteadily in the aftermath of the blast, and the equal guilt he felt when the lad nearly collapsed at their feet before turning and walking away while he himself just watched, not offering any of the care he normally would have, if circumstances had been different. But he shrugged it off as best he could to his friend. “He was moving under his own power, Porthos. You were not. By the time we had you ready to bring here, he had gone back to Baudin and his men. They’ll be looking after him.”

“That’s not what I’d call it,” Porthos retorted, one arm offering a quick swing as Aramis touched a particularly tender spot. Aramis ducked away. “Sorry. I mean, Baudin seemed quite content to let him sit there and suffer last night.”

Aramis swallowed. “He made his choice, Porthos,” he said with some difficulty. 

“I keep tellin’ you, there’s more to this than meets the eye,” Porthos replied.

Aramis nodded thoughtfully as he finished his work and handed Porthos his shirt. “You could be right.”

“He came running to get me away from there, ’Mis,” Porthos said, his voice low, his eyes looking down at the shirt he hadn’t yet pulled on. “He knew what was about to happen to that barn, and he came anyway.”

Aramis took the shirt from Porthos’s hands and started putting it over his friend’s head himself, guiding his arms gently through to try and avoid any unnecessary jarring of his bruised body. “If there is a plan, it obviously involves keeping us at arm’s length. He said that’s what he wanted in no uncertain terms this morning. So let’s hope we can get to the bottom of this in case we’re not all so lucky the next time.”

* TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan flinched away from the touch of the damp scrap of cloth against his temple and sucked a breath in through his teeth. Baudin smiled tolerantly and tried again, even more gently this time, as the lad seemed to try and move all the way around to the other side of the large tree he sat leaning against, his eyes closed, his breathing tight and labored.

“Drink the brew Alain has brought, d’Artagnan. It will help ease the throbbing in your head.” Unhappy but desperate to lessen his suffering, the Gascon lifted the cup to his lips and drank greedily, grimacing as the bad taste briefly made the pain spike and then level out. He groaned out a breath, then dropped the cup by his side, and let the trunk support him.

“Your head will be quite sore again for a few days,” Baudin predicted. “You have aggravated injuries you were just beginning to recover from.” D’Artagnan just let out an uncomfortable breath. “Otherwise, just a couple of splinters; nothing too serious. You took quite a risk, running for that barn. It could have been much worse.”

His eyes closed, his head pounding, d’Artagnan whispered, “Porthos… was too close.”

“And your thanks for your loyalty was to be ignored while Porthos was attended to. There’s a pattern here, d’Artagnan: you have pledged your loyalty to people you cannot count on.”

“Musketeers look after… each other. _I’m_ … the one who… betrayed… them.”

Baudin regarded the young man sitting limply beside him. “Perhaps. But you did not abandon them. It speaks volumes about you, d’Artagnan.” The Gascon did not answer. “In either case, it has worked to our advantage. It appears you are a hero. You ran down there to save the villagers. You found out about the dastardly thing your glorious king was planning, and you ran to protect your comrades and the townspeople in the face of danger.”

“Really,” d’Artagnan breathed. “If only they knew,” he whispered in a split second of clarity that was quickly washed away by pain and exhaustion. 

“It could have turned out quite badly, with you shouting for Porthos as you did. But now not only do you have their admiration for standing up against the king, but we all have their faith.” D’Artagnan did not move or answer. “You told them something, didn’t you?” Baudin probed, not upset. “You must have, or else Porthos would not have been standing sentry outside the entrance.”

“Promised they… wouldn’t… be hurt,” came the weak reply. “I had to tell them… to… stay away.”

Baudin nodded. “And they extended that to others. How typically gallant of the musketeers. It was nearly the death of them—and you. Perhaps the _romantic_ description given to you by Rochefort applies to _all_ musketeers.” He smiled. “I am pleased, d’Artagnan. We have both kept our sides of the bargain, and there will be so much more to come. This was a fine beginning.” He stood up and looked down at the worn out, hurting boy at his feet. “Rest now, lad. When you are up to it, we will move on. Your heart has again served us well.”

D’Artagnan didn’t hear him as he drifted off into welcome blackness.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who have read, reviewed, kudo'd and especially left reviews!  
> You do DIRECTLY impact what gets addressed, even if you don't realize it. Read on, as this time the boys have a couple of encounters with d'Artagnan...

“Are you sure you’re up to traveling, Porthos?”

The big musketeer glared at Athos. “’Course,” he said. “Baudin’s moving on, d’Artagnan’s moving on. We go.” He began to slide himself off the table, then stopped and gasped when he moved in a way that clearly aggravated his injuries. He lowered his head to his chest and shut his eyes tight, almost growling his breaths through his teeth. 

Aramis was immediately beside him. “Not yet, my friend,” he said, gently enough not to upset him, yet sternly enough to be listened to. “Riding isn’t in your best interests right now. I think Athos should stay here with you for a little longer, and after you’ve had a little more time to rest, you can catch up with the rest of us.”

_“Athos?”_ echoed the musketeer in question, surprised. “Don’t you think he should stay with his medic?”

“I said he needs rest, not attention. He’ll be fine here with you,” Aramis retorted.

“Why do I think you don’t want me to go on without you to supervise me?” Athos asked.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

“You never _could_ win at cards,” Porthos put in from his spot. He raised his head. “Athos is right—you’re worried about what he’ll say to d’Artagnan when we’re not there.”

“Perhaps,” Aramis conceded. “Should I be worried?”

Athos fixed Aramis with a steady look. “There is little to say.”

Porthos turned with effort toward his friend. “Athos. It’s not what it seems. It can’t be,” he said earnestly.

Athos inclined his head ever so slightly, showing he had heard what his comrade said. But his eyes were distant and his features hardened, revealing to those who knew him so well the war waging within him. 

“It’s possible, Athos,” Aramis’s soft voice reminded him. “He hasn’t had a chance to say. And if he gets the chance, he may still be reluctant to tell us.”

At this, Athos turned and looked intensely at his friend. “Reluctant?” he repeated.

Aramis was left momentarily speechless at the mixture of fear and hope on Athos’s face. “We don’t know what happened when he was taken away from me, Athos,” he said eventually. “Baudin threatened to kill us. God only knows what else he may have said to convince the boy to go along with him. And heaven help us, although he wears his heart on his sleeve, we don’t yet know everything that goes on in his head.”

Athos maintained his intense look at his friend for a few seconds, as though willing the words to sink in and be true. Then he said, “I’ll go. You stay with Porthos. I’ll send word if we veer from the route back to Paris.”

Aramis nodded, satisfied. “We’ll be along before nightfall.” He looked back at Porthos, then back to Athos, and he smiled. “Even though it’s not terribly smart to ride with broken ribs, I don’t think he’ll let me get away with any longer than that.”

“You’re right about that,” Porthos said. “Now get moving,” he said to Athos. “I wanna make sure the kid’s all right.”

Again, Athos’s eyes grew distant, as he was perhaps thinking of d’Artagnan’s unsteady, retreating form when they were all up near the barn after the explosion. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, and he turned and quickly departed.

“I wonder who’s more stubborn,” Porthos said, shaking his head: “a Gascon, or Athos.”

“Neither,” Aramis said. “Not when compared to you. Now let me help you lie back down. If you don’t do as you’re told, we won’t go later today, either.”

“Hmf. You’re wrong,” Porthos grumbled, even as he obeyed. “You’re the most pigheaded. Don’t know why I let you push me around so much.”

“Because compared to all of you, I’m the most stubborn of all.”

“But you’ll still never win at cards.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Baudin watched d’Artagnan carefully as they rode, partly out of concern for his well being, but mainly because of the look on the Gascon’s face when Athos appeared without Porthos and Aramis when they were ready to depart. The solemn musketeer had not said a word to d’Artagnan, and now rode slightly ahead of the group. 

“You are unwell, d’Artagnan,” Baudin said finally. 

D’Artagnan looked at Baudin and just shook his head vaguely. It was a mistake, as his eyelids began to flutter and he rocked slightly in the saddle. He closed his eyes, steadied himself, and then looked back at his traveling companion. “No,” he practically whispered.

Baudin snorted softly through his nose. “Your looks betray your words. But I admire your spirit; you will tell me if you must stop.”

“I don’t need to stop.”

Baudin observed as the Gascon’s eyes locked on Athos in front of them, and then he said, “If it’s not your health, then something else troubles you. I think I know what it is.” D’Artagnan threw a worried look at him. “Go on, d’Artagnan. Do what you must.”

D’Artagnan understood Baudin’s suggestion, and without a word or another imprudent movement of his head, he carefully prodded his horse into a faster pace, until he was side by side with Athos.

Athos, deep in his own thoughts, was surprised to find d’Artagnan beside him, and even more startled, and a little taken aback, by the timidity of the young man’s voice when he addressed him.

“How is Porthos?”

Planning to remain stoic, Athos nearly broke down when he looked at d’Artagnan. The lad actually looked afraid of him. _Afraid!_ This young, open, trusting musketeer, with a _joie de vivre_ that had been endearing in spite of all Athos’s efforts to resist it, had his head and shoulders bowed as though he was cowering, and only his eyes, wide and full of worry, sadness, and hesitation, were turned in his direction, though even they were telegraphing a fear that nearly swept Athos off his saddle. He looked back into those eyes, trying to avoid the bruising on the surrounding face and the cut on one cheek that in another time would have had Aramis’s attention, and spoke around the lump that had formed in his very tight throat. 

“He was lucky,” he said, in as detached a tone as he could manage. “Just some broken ribs and bruising.”

Athos watched as d’Artagnan’s eyes grew more worried. “He’s only not here now because Aramis insisted that he rest longer. They will catch up with us later,” he added, warring with himself but somehow wanting to ease the lad’s suffering.

D’Artagnan nodded once—very slowly, Athos noticed—then looked down, letting his hair curtain his eyes. Athos saw the lad’s grip slip from the reins, then tighten, and d’Artagnan jerked in the saddle, as though forcing himself into full consciousness. When he raised his head, Athos thought the Gascon’s eyes were about to roll up into his skull, but after another dangerous sway, d’Artagnan righted himself, and looked to the road ahead.

“Your injuries were serious?” Athos enquired, cursing how cold he sounded, even to his own ears. _You should already know,_ he berated himself, remembering himself just standing over the young musketeer, unable to bring himself to do more than look at him as he lay senseless in the aftermath of the barn blast. 

“No. Just brought back my headache,” came the hoarse, almost painfully dry, reply.

“You usually have _olive_ skin; today it is tinted with a distinct _green,”_ Athos observed. “Perhaps you should have rested as Porthos is doing.”

“Athos,” began d’Artagnan. He looked the musketeer in the eye. Athos returned the gaze, marveling at how determination now seemed to overcome the fear in the young man’s eyes. _You are so transparent, d’Artagnan,_ he thought now. _How could what you said back in Vassy be a lie?_

“I need you to understand. I need to tell you—”

D’Artagnan’s words were cut off by Baudin’s arrival beside him. “There is a town about two leagues from here that has an inn with lodgings that will be conducive to your recovery and that will also be suitable for your musketeer… friends… when they follow. We will stop there, d’Artagnan.” He smiled at the young man. “I think your enthusiasm is stronger than your body at the moment.”

Athos bristled at the change in tone when Baudin mentioned the musketeers, but it was the dullness of d’Artagnan’s reply that caught his attention. “As you wish,” the young musketeer said. 

Then, seeing that Baudin was not about to leave them, and that d’Artagnan had no intention of picking up where he left off, Athos offered a solemn nod in their direction and spurred his horse ahead, leaving only Baudin to see the heartbroken look in d’Artagnan’s eyes. 

* TM * TM * TM *

“This is an earlier stop than I expected,” Aramis said, watching Porthos wince as he sat down on the bed in the room they had taken at the inn. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“Baudin said he was concerned about d’Artagnan,” Athos explained. “Personally, I think he wanted you and Porthos to catch up so we could witness everything that happens along the way.”

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis echoed. “Was there a problem?”

“Not really,” said Athos, swallowing the guilt he still felt after their brief conversation earlier in the day. “Though he did seem to be in some discomfort.”

The marksman’s look of self-recrimination told Athos what he was thinking. “You did what you needed to do, Aramis,” he told the man. “It is I who should have done more.”

“Where is he now?” Porthos asked, running a protective hand across the bandages wrapped around his torso. He started to heave a huge yawn, but stopped when the expansion of his lungs pressed against his broken ribs and put a hitch in his breathing.

Aramis’s feelings of guilt lessened then, and he moved in to ease his friend into a more comfortable position in spite of what he expected would be protests that he was able to handle things on his own. To his surprise, Porthos accepted the help without an argument, although he refused to lie down. Aramis was uncertain if that was out of stubbornness, or out of a need to be kind to his sore back and shoulder. Either way, he felt better about the choice he had made earlier in the day to stay with his best friend, even when d’Artagnan had staggered away.

“Baudin ordered him to bed about two hours before you got here. He didn’t argue.”

Aramis nodded, thinking. Porthos’s voice brought him back into the room. “You’re plotting, ’Mis.” The medic raised his eyebrows and looked innocently at his friend. “I know that look. It’s like when you try and make me swallow something disgusting without me noticing.”

“I didn’t realize I had a look for that,” Aramis answered.

“Well, you do,” Porthos retorted. “And you’re using it now.”

“What are you thinking?” Athos asked, apparently quite willing to accept Porthos’s interpretation of Aramis’s expression.

“I could try and check on him,” he mused. He shrugged. “I _should_ have.”

Porthos frowned. “Don’t beat yourself up, ’Mis.”

Aramis shook his head, so torn by the events of last night and today. It seemed like this mess began so much longer ago. 

“He tried to tell me something today,” Athos said suddenly.

“What?” Aramis said, astonished.

“When we were riding. We had one moment alone. He asked about Porthos, but by the time he said he needed to tell me something, Baudin was there again and he stopped.”

“I knew it,” Porthos said.

“What did he say?” Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head. “Just that he needed me to understand. He didn’t get very far after that.”

Aramis furrowed his brow. “I need to check on him,” he said again. Porthos opened his mouth to interject but stopped when the man’s idea became clear. “Maybe it will give him a chance to finish what he started saying out on the road.”

Porthos nodded appreciatively. “So you get your way, and we get alone with him.” He grinned. “I knew you were plotting. When do we go?”

_“We_ don’t,” Aramis said pointedly. He looked at Athos. “And _you_ don’t either. Leave this one to me.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Aramis looked down the hall and down the stairs to make sure there was no one else around before starting on his evening adventure. Determining where the Gascon was sleeping was the easy part; getting to him safely could be a bit harder.

Once he was certain no one was around to catch him, Aramis smoothly and silently made his way to d’Artagnan’s room. He put his ear to the door and listened. Then, hearing nothing from within, he did one last survey of his surroundings, and quietly let himself in, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

The room was mostly dark, the moonbeams peeking in through the shutters on the window casting the only light and painting small stripes on d’Artagnan on the bed. The young man was breathing steadily, deeply asleep, and there was no change in his inhaling and exhaling to indicate his slumber had been disturbed by the musketeer’s entrance. 

Aramis walked cautiously to d’Artagnan’s bedside, trying to toe past any obstructions on the floor, encountering the leg of a chair and what he suspected was a carelessly abandoned boot along the way. He leaned in, laid his hand gently but firmly on d’Artagnan’s right arm, and whispered in his ear. “D’Artagnan. _D’Artagnan.”_

A small sound, as though answering in his sleep, was his only reply. D’Artagnan didn’t open his mouth, or his eyes, and then his slow, steady breathing again took over.

“D’Artagnan, _wake up_ now,” Aramis persisted, his whisper a bit harsher, and just the tiniest bit louder.

This time, the words had reached the young man’s brain. “Hm?” The softest query and a tiny frown, but his eyes remaining stubbornly locked in sleep.

“I don’t have long here, d’Artagnan. Open your eyes,” Aramis said, giving him a small shake.

This time, d’Artagnan’s eyes opened and he raised his head, bewildered by the interruption of his slumber. “Huh? Aramis?” he said airily, as though his voice had not yet returned from dreamland.

“Shh,” the marksman instructed in a low voice. “I need to talk to you.”

“What is it? Is it Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice carrying a note of panic. He started to rise.

“Sh, sh,” reassured Aramis, stopping him from sitting up any further than propping himself up on his elbows. “He’s fine. How are you, after this afternoon?”

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan replied, confused by the urgency in the man’s voice.

“Your headache—is it bad?”

“I’ve had worse. Aramis—”

“Are you dizzy?” Aramis continued.

“Sometimes. A little,” d’Artagnan answered, sounding puzzled by the whispered questions. “Aramis, what is it?”

“D’Artagnan, what were you trying to tell Athos today?”

D’Artagnan frowned. “I just wanted him to understand why I’m doing this,” he started carefully.

Aramis heard the deliberate, measured tone of the words, and he tightened his grip on d’Artagnan’s arm, stopping him from continuing. He said, “We are alone here, d’Artagnan. None of Baudin’s men are watching or listening. I know what you told Athos. And what you told me. But please—tell us the truth. What is going on?”

The Gascon’s eyes widened at Aramis’s words. “How did you get in here?” he asked. 

“D’Artagnan. _Do you truly support Baudin?”_

D’Artagnan was about to answer when the sound of footsteps reached both their ears, stopping just outside the room. Then Aramis’s blood froze when someone knocked on the door.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do things flow now? PLEASE Tell me what you think of what d'Artagnan's actions now!

“D’Artagnan, are you all right in there?”

“It’s Baudin!” d’Artagnan hissed.

Aramis held his breath. Up to now, he’d been almost completely certain that d’Artagnan had a plan and was simply unable to convey it to the Inseparables. But now he was trapped in the room with the young man, and he hadn’t really learned anything—aside from the fact that his frustratingly endearing lack of self-care was still in firmly in place—and he didn’t know for certain where the lad’s loyalties lay. It was d’Artagnan’s moment of truth, and Aramis knew that if he was wrong in his core beliefs about the Gascon, that this could go very badly.

“Get under here,” d’Artagnan ordered in a harsh whisper, gesturing fiercely underneath the bed. “Hurry!”

Aramis didn’t wait to be told twice. There was just enough room there, and he slid down on his stomach until he was completely underneath the mattress, his eyes facing the door. Above his head, he could feel d’Artagnan hastily rearranging himself, and he saw some of the blanket come down to his right, spilling off the bed and creating a curtain that would shield Aramis from accidental view.

Then the noises began. Small, whimpering sounds. Breathy, distressed cries. D’Artagnan was tossing and turning wildly when the knock and the voice came again. “D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan!”

The door opened, and as light spilled in from the hallway, Aramis saw Baudin’s feet move quickly to the bedside. He pulled himself in just a little tighter, and listened.

“D’Artagnan,” came Baudin’s voice. The mattress moved; Baudin was obviously shaking the young man. Another moan from the bed. “D’Artagnan, wake up!”

The tossing and turning came to a stop and d’Artagnan’s breathless voice reached the marksman’s ears. “Wha… what…?” he panted.

“You were dreaming, friend,” said Baudin. Aramis marveled at the Gascon’s acting skills.

“Dreaming? But… but…”

“You were calling out, d’Artagnan. For the musketeers. Thrashing like a man possessed. Clear your mind, now; they are well. Porthos and Aramis have arrived. Athos is having wine downstairs. All is as it should be.”

“As it should be,” repeated d’Artagnan, sounding dazed. He took a couple of open-mouthed, cleansing breaths. “I’m sorry, Baudin. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll be fine now.”

“It was no disturbance,” Baudin assured him. “I was concerned about your condition after today’s events and was coming to check on you—it’s just lucky that I arrived when I did and could break you out of whatever demons were plaguing your rest. Go back to sleep now, if you can; we will set out again in the morning.” 

“I will,” d’Artagnan replied. “Thank you.”

The bed moved above Aramis again, and he imagined d’Artagnan settling back under the blankets and looking very much like he was going to do as he was told. Seeing Baudin’s feet heading toward the open door, he prepared to come out from his hiding place. But the man’s only action was to shut the door and to sit back down on the chair near the bed.

Silence reigned for about a minute. Aramis barely dared to breathe. Then: “I can’t sleep with you staring at me, Baudin.”

A soft chuckle. “How can you tell I’m staring at you in the darkness?”

D’Artagnan explained, “You know what I mean. I’m keeping you from other things. I’m being a burden. That weighs more heavily than nightmares.”

The genuineness of Baudin’s tone disturbed Aramis. “You’re not a burden, d’Artagnan. I promised you I would never treat you as poorly as Louis did, and I am keeping that promise now. You are still not well, and I would feel better keeping an eye on you, at least for awhile. Forget I am here. I will face the other way, if it makes you more comfortable, in the night.”

D’Artagnan’s genuine response was just as disquieting. “You attend to me with dignity and respect, Baudin,” he acknowledged. “Thank you.”

Again, d’Artagnan settled back into the bed, and all went quiet. It stayed that way for one minute, then two. Three. Aramis heard Baudin’s breathing even out and he started to snore lightly in the chair. The musketeer was about to resign himself to having to stay tense and perfectly still for several hours, when he heard a moan from above him. _“Hmmm… ”_

Aramis’s ears perked up at the low sound of pain, and he silently cursed himself for not being able to reveal himself to help the young man. He listened for a response from Baudin, but there was none. Could he risk it, to check on d’Artagnan?

_“Mmmm…”_ came d’Artagnan’s voice again, this time more insistent.

Baudin’s breathing changed; Aramis realized he was waking up. “D’Artagnan,” Baudin called softly.

D’Artagnan did not respond. “Porthos,” he murmured, the word expressing both fear and pain.

“D’Artagnan,” Baudin called again, more loudly this time. He stood up, again came to the bedside. Once more, Aramis felt the shaking movement that meant the man was trying to rouse the young musketeer.

_“Porthos!_ Watch out for—” D’Artagnan’s breathing got more rapid, but one more firm shake from Baudin and he jerked in the bed. _“Ohhh,”_ he moaned. Then, more quietly, and clearly awake, the young man said, “I did it again? I’m sorry, Baudin.”

“The memory plagues you,” Baudin observed. “And you are in pain?” Before d’Artagnan had a chance to respond, he added, “Do not bother to answer, my friend; I know you too well already. You will deny it. I will send for Aramis. If he is not so pre-occupied with the others, he may be willing to look after you.”

Aramis burned with shame at the dig. He would have felt less insulted by it, he realized, if it was not so close to the truth. But as quickly as he felt that flash of guilt, he dismissed it; there were more important things to consider now. If Baudin called for him and he was nowhere to be found, how would that be explained? And who would suffer for it?

His mind was racing through all the possibilities when he heard d’Artagnan’s response. His tone was hard. “I don’t need Aramis.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed, moving the blanket back. Aramis tried to shrink further under the middle of the mattress. “I need to clear my head. I’m going for a walk.” 

Aramis tried to figure out what was coming next. Would Baudin seek him out while d’Artagnan was out walking? Or would d’Artagnan simply tell him what was going on? Again, he found himself asking questions that had no easy answers. Baudin moved and opened the door as d’Artagnan reached for and pulled on his boots. Then the young man stood up, stumbled and appeared to lose his footing, and as he nearly fell back onto the bed, Baudin grabbed him by the arm. “Steady there, d’Artagnan,” Baudin said.

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan said. Even under the bed, Aramis shook his head. That was the one response he could predict. 

“You need help, d’Artagnan. If not Aramis, I will call for someone else.”

“No,” d’Artagnan refused. “I just need to get out for ten minutes.” He took another two steps, staggered a bit, leaned suddenly into Baudin.

“This is foolish, man.”

“Try and stop me,” d’Artagnan challenged. Aramis raised his eyebrows. Then, when Baudin didn’t let go, the young man pleaded, “Baudin, _please.”_

At this Baudin sighed, clearly knowing when d’Artagnan was not to be swayed. “Very well. But I am concerned, d’Artagnan.”

“If you’re that worried, _come with me.”_

Aramis opened the eyes he’d squeezed shut when he was trying to figure out what to do if Baudin’s men went looking for him, and he felt like laughing, though of course he didn’t dare to. As he listened to Baudin agree, and watched as d’Artagnan took faltering steps out of the room with Baudin very close beside him, he realized that although he still had no idea if everything d’Artagnan had just done was part of a fabricated plan, or just a very convenient truth, what he _did_ know was that d’Artagnan could have given him away, but he did not.

He considered the question for the next two minutes while he made sure Baudin or his men did not return to the room, then he slid out from under the bed, and disappeared back down the hall.

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos looked up from his musings to the noise on the stairs, letting a small frown pass over his face as he watched d’Artagnan and Baudin awkwardly heading down and then out the door, without even a glance in his direction. He continued to concentrate on his wine until he was sure they were out of sight, then he drained the cup and headed back up to the rooms. He found Aramis with Porthos, talking animatedly.

He came in and closed the door as the pair looked at him. “I saw Baudin leave with d’Artagnan. What’s going on?”

It was Aramis who answered. “I’m still not sure.” As Athos rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to curse, the marksman added, “He protected me, Athos. Just as he tried to protect Porthos today.” Then Aramis explained everything that happened.

“So he drew Baudin away so you could get out,” Porthos concluded with a nod.

“It seems likely,” Aramis admitted. “But I admit, after Baudin came in, I couldn’t tell what was genuine and what was not.” He looked at Porthos. “But his first thought was of you, brother.”

Porthos just took the information in, and nodded. “So what happens now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Aramis said. “Baudin seems determined not to give us a moment alone with him. If he’s not with him himself, he has one of his men assigned to keep watch over him.”

“Still, he’s starting to loosen his grip somewhat,” Athos pointed out. “Either that or he’s getting careless.” The others looked at him questioningly. “He had that minute with me this afternoon, and until he came to check on him, d’Artagnan was alone in his room.”

“In plain sight of him all the time,” Aramis countered. “And then sleeping.”

“All the same,” Athos said. “What remains to be seen is whether Baudin’s trust is well-placed. And if his is, ours isn’t.”

“Ours is,” Porthos said. “His actions today have to count for _something.”_

“They do,” Athos agreed. “But whether that’s guile, or guilt, I still need to be convinced.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Porthos sat outside the inn, waiting for Athos and Aramis to join him so they could continue their journey back to Paris. Having been sternly warned by Aramis not to be involved in any of the preparations for the move, he was doing what he considered emulating Athos’s brood—although no one could do it quite so well—and consoling himself with some leftover stew from the previous night. His ribs, tightly bound, were only annoying now, and the discomfort in his back and shoulder, which were stiff and aching when he first arose this morning, was tolerable, so it was only if he moved quickly or without thinking that he found himself gritting his teeth. His headache had disappeared, something he attributed to whatever that concoction was that Aramis had given him last night, but a touch to the back of his head still made him hiss.

He was grateful for the few minutes alone, as the events of yesterday and last night gave him much to think about. It bothered him that d’Artagnan was still insistent about staying with Baudin. But he was equally annoyed that Athos insisted on attributing unfortunate intentions to the young man. Aramis was on the fence, he knew, but at least he seemed willing to consider the possibility that d’Artagnan was not able to tell them what he was really up to. 

Then there were the actions of d’Artagnan himself. Running to get Porthos away from the barn, when there was every likelihood that he knew it was about to explode. And then last night, hiding Aramis under the bed and getting Baudin out of the room so the musketeer could escape unseen—none of this screamed “traitor.” But could Athos be right? Could guilt have fueled those moments? Porthos couldn’t believe that d’Artagnan would suddenly stop caring about the three of them. More likely, he _couldn’t,_ he corrected himself. He’d never met anyone like the Gascon, who carried his trust and devotion to the Inseparables like a badge of honor, and whose eyes could hide nothing.

Or could they?

Porthos cursed himself. If it was true that d’Artagnan was so transparent, then Athos would have to be right. He was missing something, he told himself. Aside from the few minutes when he’d taken the clearly suffering young musketeer to see Aramis the other night—and d’Artagnan was not capable of any coherent conversation at that point—Porthos had not spoken to the Gascon himself, looked in his eyes, felt him out. Except for the incident last night, even Aramis had his doubts. Was Porthos missing something? Could his confidence in d’Artagnan be misplaced?

He was still mulling over this disturbing train of thought when he saw d’Artagnan depart the inn with Baudin. A gentle smile and a warm pat on the back for the Gascon, and then Baudin followed him to the stables. Porthos gave it another minute’s thought, then made up his mind and waited for the perfect moment.

* TM * TM * TM *

“I heard you were asking about me.”

D’Artagnan jumped at the unexpected voice and quickly turned around. His eyes met Porthos’s for just a second, wide and skittish, then he immediately dipped his head and turned away, as though ready to flinch at the man’s first movement. He didn’t speak, choosing instead to continue straightening the blanket on his horse’s back in preparation for the saddle. He nodded briefly, his shoulders tensed.

“Two or three times,” Porthos added calmly.

D’Artagnan’s eyes darted back to the big musketeer, then flicked away again. His hands gripped the blanket more tightly. “You were injured,” he said softly.

“Yep,” Porthos replied. “But I’m living. Standing. Walking. A barn door’s no match for me.” 

He waited, watched as d’Artagnan seemed to shrink even further into himself. The boy was uncomfortable, but Porthos was determined to stay with him, even though he could see Baudin nearby, supposedly preparing his own mount, but surreptitiously watching the two of them. 

The Gascon took in and let out a shaky breath. “I’m glad to hear of it,” he said, his voice equally unsteady.

“You all right?” Porthos pushed. “You were pretty close, too.”

“I’m fine, Porthos,” d’Artagnan replied, his tight, drawn features a clear plea to conclude this conversation.

Porthos got the message, but gamely ignored it. “That cut on your face looks nasty.”

“It’s tended,” d’Artagnan almost snapped.

Porthos recognized the lad was under pressure, and he just nodded. D’Artagnan took in and let out a long, wobbly breath, then finally turned to him and said, “I’m sorry. I just... you weren’t supposed to get hurt.” 

Then the moment of boldness passed, and the Gascon again dropped his eyes, focusing on anything and everything except the man in front of him. Porthos saw the lad’s eyes linger for a long moment on Baudin before he turned back to his horse. “D’Artagnan. You got nothing to be ashamed about,” Porthos offered.

D’Artagnan stiffened and his hands froze mid-move, but didn’t reply.

“You believe in what you’re doing, right?” Porthos pressed.

D’Artagnan’s head dipped down and to his left, staring ahead at nothing near his horse’s feet. He was listening now. But Porthos could see his troubled eyes and a tremble to his chin that hadn’t been there a minute ago. “If you stand up for what you believe in, you’ve got no reason to hang your head in front of any man.”

Again, Porthos waited. D’Artagnan still said nothing, but his chin dropped to his chest and he closed his eyes. Porthos looked over at Baudin, who was watching at that moment, and fixed him with a deadly stare. Then his attention turned back to d’Artagnan, and he moved up beside him, reading nothing but shame on the young man’s face as he stood staring at the ground and taking shallow breaths through his mouth. When it became clear he wasn’t going to speak again, Porthos dropped a hand on d’Artagnan’s left shoulder and said softly, “We’ll see you outside,” and walked out.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a much longer chapter, but it was getting ridiculous so I have split it into two.  
> Thanks for feedback so far... please continue, so I know what you think, and what you are hoping!   
> So here we have something a bit transitional, in which our Inseparables spy on d'Artagnan, because they can't stand not knowing what's going on, and in which our Gascon tries to prove he's a man of his word.

They rode on that morning in relative silence, having restocked their supplies and rested their horses well enough for a long stretch of travel. After Porthos left the stables, Baudin had taken it upon himself to stay close to d’Artagnan, the young man’s troubled demeanor seeming to slow his responses, as his mind was clearly elsewhere. It was after d’Artagnan’s eyes had bored into the back of the musketeers’ heads for a full ten minutes that Baudin decided to try and engage him in conversation again.

“There is more to prepare, d’Artagnan,” Baudin said. He slowed his horse to little more than a gentle walk, and d’Artagnan had to do the same in order to hear him. “We will be passing near Anet tomorrow. What do you know of it?”

D’Artagnan replied, “I know that His Majesty’s father, King Henry the Fourth, defeated the Catholic League near Anet in 1590. He was a Calvinist then, and though he denounced Protestantism later, he is the one who signed the Edict of Nantes to give some religious freedoms to the Huguenots. In the end, I believe it cost him his life.”

“You are well schooled,” Baudin said, impressed.

“For a farm boy, you mean,” d’Artagnan said.

Baudin smiled. “No—perhaps for a soldier. What do you think of Henry’s actions?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I think he was _politique_ who underestimated the strong opinions of people on both sides of the issue.”

Baudin nodded agreement. “I believe you are right. And I believe his son is guilty of doing the same. The people of Anet are ready to join in this movement, d’Artagnan, and take the lead. We have informed them of our passing and they have asked for support.”

“What kind of support?” d’Artagnan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Near the Château d’Anet is a chapel with a cellar stockpiled with weapons, enough for a hearty battle if one were ever to present itself again. But the people of the village themselves are not organized. They have asked me for a plan to best utilize their forces and their strength, and I have agreed. We need to see what skills and tools they have, and then we can help them.”

“They are planning an uprising?” d’Artagnan guessed.

“Not yet. But soon. You can help prepare them.”

“I won’t be welcome there—the others won’t either. King’s musketeers represent Catholicism to them.”

“They have promised fine behavior.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Like the people of Vassy?” he scoffed. “You’ll understand if I doubt their sincerity.”

“Not this time, d’Artagnan. As a matter of fact, they were quite excited to hear that a musketeer had joined the ranks.”

“Athos, Aramis, and Porthos haven’t ‘joined the ranks,’” d’Artagnan reminded him. “I am concerned for them as well.”

Baudin nodded. “I understand,” he said.

“You will make it clear that my aid to them depends on their treatment of not just myself, but of the others,” d’Artagnan instructed him. “One attack and I will stop—loyal to you or not, Baudin.”

“Understood.” Baudin smiled. “You are steadfast,” he observed. “It is a Gascon trait.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “A good one,” he agreed.

They lapsed into silence again, with Baudin satisfied that their talk had bolstered the young man’s mood. But after a time, he was chagrined to see a morose look appear on d’Artagnan’s face again, and once more his focus was on the quietly traveling musketeers in ahead of them. He felt the need to speak up again. “Your heart should be lighter this morning, d’Artagnan, now that you have seen Porthos for yourself. He is well.”

“He is _recovering,”_ d’Artagnan corrected. “But, yes, I am glad to see it.” 

They continued without further conversation, but Baudin could see his young companion was deep in thought, and his expression remained stony, and closed. Finally, without turning away from Aramis, Porthos, and Athos, d’Artagnan said to Baudin, “They think I am ashamed of what I am doing.”

Baudin looked at the young man, furrowed his brow. “Are you ashamed?” he asked.

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I am ashamed that Porthos got hurt. I do not want them in harm’s way. But they are treating me like I didn’t tell them the truth about wanting to help the people of Vassy and others like them.” D’Artagnan’s expression hardened. “I meant it, Baudin. Those people deserve better.”

Baaudin smiled at d’Artagnan’s earnestness. “I understand,” he said. “From the look on your face I sense you have a plan to deal with that.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Let me handle the people of Anet alone, Baudin. Without your men standing guard over me. And let it be in plain view of the musketeers. They need to see that I do it willingly, freely, and with your trust.”

“And if they raise their swords against you?” 

“Then I shall die. I won’t fight them. But I will not stop.” 

Baudin looked at the tight, determined expression of the young man beside him, met his dark, piercing eyes, and understood his resolve. “You do me an honor, d’Artagnan,” he said finally. “A man of principles is not as easy to come by as he once was. And you are, indeed, a man of your word. I am pleased to offer you a chance to put your mind at ease regarding the musketeers. Your request is granted. We will talk with the people of Anet together when we arrive, then I will leave the work in your hands. And I will personally ensure both they _and_ the musketeers are assured of my trust in you.”

“I won’t let you down,” d’Artagnan promised earnestly.

“I know you won’t,” Baudin replied warmly. 

D’Artagnan looked back to the musketeers, then turned thankful eyes to Baudin. “I am grateful for your confidence,” he said. 

“It has been well earned.”

* TM * TM * TM *

The band of travellers moved on until sunset, when they made a camp for the night. Porthos resisted the fussing of Aramis unsuccessfully, as the medic insisted on checking his ribs and rubbing more salve on his back and shoulders. But when they finished eating, the big musketeer gratefully accepted the extra blankets and rolls from the horses that gave him a softer place to lie down.

A few feet away, they saw Baudin’s men settling in for the evening, with d’Artagnan in the midst of them, being singled out by Baudin for attention. Again, the two sat by the fire, clearly deep in conversation, d’Artagnan occasionally shaking his head and pointing to something on the paper Baudin was holding. Then Baudin would answer, and the Gascon would nod, and his hands would move in that animated way they always did when he got excited or involved. Youth, or the place of his birth, was responsible, they had always surmised amongst themselves when they caught him at it like that.

“You think he’s all right?” Porthos asked, breaking the long moment when the trio were just openly staring at the young man, whom they longed to have by their side, and whose actions they longed to understand.

At that moment d’Artagnan burst out laughing, throwing his head back before appearing to catch himself in a poor choice of physical movement and wincing as he raised a hand to the back of his head. Baudin stood up and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, and said words the musketeers could not hear. After a moment, the lad lowered his hand and smiled sheepishly at Baudin, who nodded and sat down again, and the two resumed their discussion.

“He’s fine,” Athos said, a note of sourness touching his voice. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is bound to be an exciting day.” 

Aramis and Porthos turned and watched him as he walked away.

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos looked around at the village that lay before them as the musketeers dismounted. “An interesting choice of places to stop,” he said the next afternoon, his eyes sharp and suspicious.

“Just right if you consider Baudin’s objective,” Aramis replied. He watched as Porthos carefully got off his horse. “Anet isn’t exactly friendly toward the King.”

“And that means it won’t be exactly friendly to _us_ either,” Porthos added. “I wonder how long we’re staying.”

Athos’s eyes darkened as he focused on something past his brothers. “I believe we’re about to find out.”

Aramis and Porthos turned to see Baudin approaching them. “Gentlemen,” he greeted. Unperturbed by the cold reception he received, he continued, “Please let me assure you that our stay here, although necessary, will be brief and uneventful.”

Athos fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “We hardly expect you to assure us of our safety.”

“Nevertheless, d’Artagnan has expressed his concern that you may feel threatened by the people of Anet, and I agree that some of the residents may feel equally threatened by your presence.”

“And his,” Porthos interjected, glancing at Aramis.

Baudin nodded. “Indeed. But unlike the people of Vassy, the people here will welcome d’Artagnan with open arms, as I have explained to them that he is a fine strategist and upright young man in whom I place my complete trust.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Really,” he deadpanned.

“Absolutely,” Baudin answered. “I have a firm belief in d’Artagnan, despite Louis’s misgivings, and his work here today will only reinforce it.”

“Dare we ask what he’s doing here today?” Aramis inquired.

Baudin nodded. “Certainly. D’Artagnan will be sharing his expertise with the leaders of the movement here—reviewing the weapons in their armoury, and teaching them how to organize themselves. So that the next time the _Catholic League_ or some other such pompous organization dares to rear its ugly head again, they will be ready. Who better to show them what the King’s men are now capable of, than one of the King’s men?”

“You’re forcing him to do this,” Aramis accused suddenly. Athos and Porthos looked him, surprised by his unexpected and clearly passionate outburst. “D’Artagnan thinks he is protecting us. He will do whatever he must to ensure our safety. Even this.”

“That is not so,” Baudin said calmly. “Your safety is now dependent on your silence, not on his actions. D’Artagnan has already done enough to see him condemned to death if you were to witness against him. You are therefore already ensnared, and he has no need to continue to ensure your silence. He is acting of his own free will. As a matter of fact, he _asked_ for this task.” At the looks of dismay on the faces of the musketeers, Baudin paused and smiled fondly. “You may be pleased to know, though, that he has made it clear that if there is a single act against the three of you by anyone, all aid ceases—to the people of Anet, and to me. I wonder why he shows you such loyalty, when you did not show the same to him yesterday?” 

Porthos’s expression grew hard. “You’re bluffing. What could he teach them?”

“D’Artagnan may be young, but he knows the workings of the minds of three of the King’s most valuable musketeers. That alone is priceless. He will be a fine teacher, and he has willing students.”

“Students who may turn on him in his sleep?” Athos put in.

“You underestimate him,” Baudin said. “I, and the people of Anet, will not do the same. Watch and see.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos frowned as he watched d’Artagnan once again disappear into the chapel. “Well, Baudin was telling the truth,” he said bitterly. “He’s been on his own all afternoon, and not once has he tried to get away from the townspeople.”

“What would you expect him to do?” Aramis responded. “Even without Baudin sitting on top of him, you must know he’s being watched, somehow.”

“Perhaps,” Athos conceded, turning away from the building and taking a drink of water from the skin he had pulled from his saddlebag. He spat out the liquid, then leaned against the large tree under which they stood, then immediately pulled away. Standing still was not easy right now; his blood felt electric. No matter what he said, or saw, or felt, the need to pull d’Artagnan away from Baudin and shake him until he saw sense was overpowering. “But there is nothing, not even a glance, that indicates Porthos’s undying faith is well founded.”

The big musketeer sighed from his place at the foot of the tree. He was grateful to have the chance to rest, despite his wish to keep up with the Gascon, and the cool breeze and the soft grass were soothing. “Give him time,” he said.

“How much more time?” Athos snapped back, a little harder than he intended to. “Heaven knows what he’s telling those people. Baudin was right—what d’Artagnan knows is enough to get started with. He’s learned our strategies, he knows the inside of the garrison, and he knows the workings of the court. He has no fear now—if we don’t speak up and his complicity is discovered, we are condemned with him. If we _do—”_ He cut himself off as he realized what he was about to say, and the hurt of it was nearly unbearable. “If we do,” he repeated, his voice soft and openly pained, “we betray a brother who has more than once offered his life for ours.”

Aramis felt the ache swelling in his friend’s heart, and he moved to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Athos did not look at him, did not react to his touch, but the marksman knew that did not mean the man was not listening. “Let us believe in d’Artagnan, for just a little bit longer.”

Athos said nothing at first, keeping his thoughts deep within himself. Then, without looking at the man at his side, he asked, “Can you?”

“I have to,” Aramis answered quietly. “Because believing in the alternative would kill us all.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos leaned back against the old cart near the chapel that was currently hiding them from view of anyone who might be looking. After Baudin’s announcement earlier in the day, Aramis had suggested that the trio keep track of d’Artagnan’s activities, and while the Gascon was surrounded by others, they’d watched openly. Early in the evening, the young man was heard to claim tiredness and a continuing headache, and he turned in. The musketeers stayed up, talking quietly to themselves and partaking of a late meal and drink, unwilling to be alone with their thoughts as Anet went to sleep around them. But just when they were going to turn in, they’d discovered d’Artagnan silently and stealthily leaving the inn that the travellers had holed up in for the night, and after a quick and silent discussion, they had followed. The lad hadn’t seen them, they were certain, and he’d slipped into the chapel near the château.

“This is a waste of time,” Athos grumbled after thirty minutes. “No one else is showing up.”

“Do you think he’s all right?” Porthos wondered quietly, ignoring his brother’s words.

Aramis shook his head. “No,” he replied. “If he was all right, he wouldn’t be working with Baudin.” He couldn’t get the memory of the concussed and in pain Gascon lying on the floor of the cellar out of his head. The medic in him wanted desperately to get d’Artagnan alone, to check him over as he had tried to do the other night; he had seemed clear-headed when Aramis had snuck into his room to try and speak with him. But could there be an injury making him fold to Baudin’s will that the medic hadn’t had time to detect? 

Athos glanced at Aramis, taking note of the tension in his voice. The man’s outburst earlier in the day when Baudin boasted about d’Artagnan’s cooperation had taken both him and Porthos by surprise. None of them were happy with the situation, but even Athos had managed to keep a cool head in front of Baudin. Perhaps, like himself, Aramis was finding the uncertainty unbearable. “Why don’t we see what he’s doing for ourselves?” he suggested, purposely keeping his tone neutral.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Porthos said immediately. Then he pulled away from the group, had a look around to make sure no one was going to spot them in the moonlight, and crossed swiftly to the shadow of the archway that framed the chapel door. With a shrug of his shoulders, Athos moved to join him, with Aramis quick to follow.

“What’s the plan?” Porthos asked when they arrived.

“Find him, see what he’s doing, beat some sense into him,” Aramis proposed.

Athos rolled his eyes. “See what he’s doing, talk if it’s prudent,” he amended.

“Spoilsport,” Aramis said.

“Someone may have already been in there when he entered. We weren’t here until _he_ was, remember.” The others shrugged. “Aramis, you keep watch out here in case anyone comes. Porthos, you and I will try and find d’Artagnan.” Aramis frowned. “You have the sharpest eye in this light, my friend,” Athos said. Aramis continued to look unhappy, but he nodded. 

“We’ll be back soon,” Porthos assured him. Then he and Athos disappeared inside.

* TM * TM * TM *

PLEASE let me know what you think!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally... and then...

And here we are.... finally, a bit of progress! But sorry, have to leave you on a cliffie again!  
Please let me know what you think!

* TM * TM * TM *

 

“What is this place?” Porthos asked in a whisper. “There ain’t many places to hide in a church. But d’Artagnan’s nowhere.” 

Athos scanned the chapel, looked at the Stations of the Cross on the walls; the large, ornate crucifix at the front; the rows and rows of pews. Porthos was right—there was no one there except them. “Perhaps he’s in the sacristy,” he guessed.

The pair moved quietly toward the front of the church, pistols drawn, looking into the small room near the altar to see if there was anyone around. No one was, and there was no other exit apparent. Athos frowned and led Porthos back out into the church, the only light coming eerily from the many lit candles, and from the moon, shining its light through the stained-glass windows. 

The two of them prowled the aisles, trying to see if there was anyone in the pews that they had missed on the way up. Then they peered behind statues of saints and the Virgin and Child, trying to find hidden a passage or a doorway they were missing in the darkness. Athos looked into the confessional, straining to see in the darkness, but there was nothing. Coming up empty-handed, they split up, with Athos heading to the entrance to the chapel and Porthos to the sanctuary.

Pushing away the nagging discomfort of slinking through a holy building, Porthos glanced at the Cross and the silent, crucified Savior looking down at him, then quietly moved across the raised area and dipped his head underneath the corporal to look at the floor beneath the great marble altar. A noise nearby startled him, and he froze, still bent under the altar.

Looking through the lace of the material, Porthos could just make out movement near the lectern. Knowing that Athos was further down near the baptistry, he strained to see who had joined them, and how. But the dimness of the light only served to keep their new arrival hidden, just as it protected him from view.

The figure moved down into the naves of the chapel, and Porthos tensed, hoping that Athos had heard the movement as well and was protecting himself. He prepared to reveal himself and find his friend, when the short, two-toned whistle of a night bird brought him up short. It was the usual, pre-arranged signal from Aramis. Someone was coming, someone that he either couldn’t stop, or whom he thought he shouldn’t kill. Porthos moved further underneath the altar, listening for anything that might indicate that Athos was also protected in the shadows of the chapel.

The sound of fast steps within the room followed. Their unknown companion apparently moved to the pews, and soon after, the sound of different, heavier footfall also met the big musketeer’s ears. He held his breath, and listened.

“Moreaux told me he thought he’d seen you come this way. I was worried when I went to check on you and you were gone.”

_Baudin._

“I just needed to be alone.”

_D’Artagnan!_

“You sound downhearted. This is a difficult burden for you.”

“Doing what’s right is not easy,” replied the Gascon. “I have been praying about my decisions, hoping God will support the path I have chosen.”

There was silence for a moment, and Porthos could hear no movement. Then Baudin spoke, his words careful and gentle. “It is difficult, travelling with the musketeers. I see the pain on your face when you are with them.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can bear this. Every encounter with them wounds me,” d’Artagnan agreed quietly. Porthos could physically feel the truth in his statement. “I love them, but I do not agree with them, and their judgment pierces me like a sword.” The two sat quietly for a few moments. Then d’Artagnan said, “Forgive me for worrying you. I couldn’t sleep with all the thoughts going through my head. I came here to find solace in my Catholic God.”

The smile in the other man’s voice was evident. “God is God, d’Artagnan. It is man who tries to define Him. I do not begrudge people’s choice of religion. Only their insistence on others agreeing with them.” Kindly, Baudin then asked, “Did He help you?”

“I think so,” d’Artagnan answered. “At least, I feel I can sleep more soundly now.”

“Then you are blessed, indeed.”

“I’m going back now. I’m tired and my head aches.”

“I will see you back. And I will ask Allain to prepare another draught for your pain.”

“I will be grateful.”

Porthos listened as the men got up and departed the chapel. Then, after another moment of stillness, he moved out from under the altar, and was relieved to see Athos materializing from the shadow of a statue of the Virgin near the back of the nave. He was at Porthos’s side quickly, and the big musketeer could feel the tension emanating from his friend, no doubt a combination of adrenaline from their close encounter, and frustration at hearing the companionable discussion between their youngest and Baudin. He directed Athos’s attention to the lectern.

“He came out over here,” he said.

Athos moved to the small podium and tried to see a latch or a fingerhold in the darkness, anything that would indicate d’Artagnan’s entry point. Porthos went to the Presider’s Chair and took a tall, lit candle from beside it, carrying it over to where Athos was now running his hand along the floor. In the glow of the new illumination, Athos finally spotted a very thin crack in between the boards on the floor, and he pulled out his _main gauche_ to help prize up the piece. The men were surprised when, instead of a single board rising up, a whole section, wide enough to fit a large man and more, moved.

Athos backed up and steadied himself as he crouched, ready to open the hidden hatch. Porthos stashed his pistol and picked up another candle. The hatch came up and Athos peered down, with Porthos moving in to shed some light on whatever was below. Athos looked at Porthos and shrugged; a ladder led down to what appeared to be a larger, open area—a cellar of some sort. With a nod of agreement, Athos stood and made his way down, stopping only to take one of the candles from Porthos, and when Porthos descended, the two of them held the candles out, to see what, or who, was down here.

Porthos’s eyes widened at what they saw. “This is an armoury,” he said. “Look at all those guns.”

“And all those bombs,” Athos added, equally astonished , as his eyes focused on another part of the small, roughly-structured room. He used his candle to light a torch he spied high up on one of the walls, blowing out the candle so his hands were free. The room grew much brighter, allowing them to fully take in exactly how much was here. There were rifles standing in rows propped up against uneven stone walls, piles of pistols on both the floor and a small table, and a cache of round bombs that he was sure could create more than a little bit of damage. In the far corner, away from the open flame of the wall torch, were several barrels that he guessed contained gunpowder, and there were two large wooden crates near them, closed.

“What was d’Artagnan doing down here?” Porthos asked, moving through the crowded space, peering at the stockpile surrounding them.

Athos’s eyes continued to scan the weapons surrounding them. “And just as importantly, what was he doing down here _alone?”_

“Well, he didn’t want Baudin to know about it, that’s for sure,” Porthos replied. He bent down, biting his lip at a small twitch of his ribs, and picked up a harquebus. He felt the weight of it in his hand, shook his head. “This is a nice new one. Wonder where they’re getting these from.” He put down his candle on the table near him and looked carefully at the craftsmanship. “Hmf,” he said with a snort. “Won’t get much use out of this one. The flint’s too small; it’s never going to strike the steel. I hope this is the one that gets aimed at me, if it comes to that.”

He put the gun back down and picked up a pistol. He closed one eye and tried to look down the barrel, then took mock aim at the opposite wall. He furrowed his brow. “Hm. Trigger’s stiff.” He shook his head. “Not very good workmanship. And these are mostly new pistols. Someone wasn’t very careful.”

Athos picked up one of the bombs, then frowned. He brought it close to his ear and shook it. “Water has gotten into it. The gunpowder will be useless.”

Porthos looked at him quizzically. “How would water get in down here?” Athos shrugged, then a possibility dawned on them at the same time as they connected this problem to the defects in the firearms. 

Immediately, almost frantically, the pair started examining the other things in the room. Athos picked up another small bomb, shook it. Water, presumably mixed with gunpowder. Then another. Water again. He picked up a third, then a fourth. All the same. Dropping them now, he strode over to the crates. Pulling out his _main gauche,_ he jimmied one open. Flints, dozens upon dozens of them. 

All shattered.

He dropped the lid and made his way to the barrels. About to move one, he was surprised to have the lid come off in his hands. Moisture from a dark, dank cellar would easily get in and render the substance less effective. He took off a glove and touched the gunpowder; his hand came back dirty, with flecks of the stuff stuck to it. It, too, had been watered down.

Porthos, meanwhile, was trying and testing the harquebuses and pistols, shaking his head as he went. “These aren’t going to do anyone any good,” he said to Athos as he replaced one of the rifles. “Every pistol I’ve touched has either a stiff trigger or a bent frizzen spring. It takes work to do this; it doesn’t happen on guns this new unless it’s been done on purpose.”

Athos came to him, wiping the gunpowder residue from his hand and replacing his glove. “And with great dedication. The gunpowder and flints will be of no use as well, for the most part. Unless this is a graveyard for ineffective weaponry, I’d have to say this was all tampered with, and by someone whose intent was to destroy whatever campaign the fine people of Anet had in mind.”

A slow, easy grin made its way onto Porthos’s face. “D’Artagnan.”

Athos furrowed his brow and looked quizzically at his companion.

“D’Artagnan—he was the only one down here. He wasn’t in this chapel just prayin’ like he led Baudin to believe. He was down here. For a long time. It was d’Artagnan who did all this. _It was d’Artagnan. He has a plan.”_

Athos felt a shiver run through him, bringing his blood to the surface and giving him goose bumps. Of course, Porthos was right. There could be absolutely no other explanation. He had had to consider the possibility when the lad tried to save Porthos from injury, and when he’d kept Aramis’s presence in his room at the inn a secret, but it was almost too easy to pass those incidents off as guilt-induced actions. But this was clearly a statement of intent. D’Artagnan had come to the chapel alone, at night, and been in this cellar. He’d not spoken to Baudin about his movements, and when he was caught, he covered up what he’d been doing. Until their trip to Vassy, Athos had always considered the Gascon to be open almost to a fault, wearing his heart on his sleeve, and nearly incapable of deceit—certainly not able to hide anything from the men who had become his brothers. 

But this, the evidence of sabotage that could only have been intentional, coupled with the lingering consternation in his own mind about the lad’s apparent change of heart, and topped off with the discovery of what appeared to be knots in some of the bomb fuses that were fashioned in such a way that Athos had only ever seen the young man’s fingers design, meant he could only believe that what Porthos had said, and had been insisting on all along, was true: that d’Artagnan had a plan. And Athos, in his suspicion of closeness, his absolute fear of betrayal by those he loved, with the exception of Aramis and Porthos—a fear born in him thanks to his once-thought-dead wife, Milady de Winter—had been deaf to Porthos’s words, and blind to d’Artagnan’s actions, and he had believed the worst of the young man whom he had come to love, and turned away from him—no, _Athos had pushed d’Artagnan away from himself,_ in a way so hurtful and merciless that raw pain now resided permanently in the Gascon’s eyes, which Athos had forced himself to ignore.

Now, he felt urgency bubbling inside him. D’Artagnan’s words in the church had struck him to the core, but at the time with a self-righteousness that had allowed him to disregard what he knew to be the truth of them: _I don’t know how much longer I can bear this.... Their judgment pierces me like a sword._ Now, he intimately felt the agony of the young man, and despaired at being, in large part, responsible for it. They wouldn’t get to Paris fast enough. He couldn’t embrace d’Artagnan soon enough, tell him that he, Athos, was wrong, that he should never have doubted the young man’s steadfastness, that he desperately needed the lad’s forgiveness. His own cold, cruel words shouted at him: _You are no longer our brother._

_I cannot stand to look at you._

“What have I done?” Athos breathed. 

His anguish rolled off him like torrential rain, and it was only the touch of Porthos’s hand on his arm that stopped him from running out of the chapel to find the lad. “Hey,” the big musketeer said, gruffly, making him take notice. “We can’t let on we know.”

Athos turned a hard stare on his friend. 

“We can’t tell him. We’d be putting him a lot of danger.”

But Athos protested, his heart screaming for the young man he’d treated so harshly. “You heard him, Porthos; we are _wounding_ him. _I_ am wounding him!”

“And we’ll have to keep doing it for a little longer. He’s a strong one; he’ll handle it. But if we tell him now, Athos, he won’t be able to hide his emotions. It could get him _killed.”_

Athos continued to stare, almost wild-eyed, at Porthos, the sensible words warring fiercely with his need to make things right with d’Artagnan. Porthos saw the battle taking place, even in the flickering light of the torch and the candles, and he kept his return gaze steady. If he could make Athos truly understand the veracity of his statement, then d’Artagnan might survive while surrounded by enemies. If he could not... 

The two remained locked in silent conversation for a few seconds longer, then Athos broke away abruptly and headed to the exit. Porthos followed. When they got outside, Athos stopped and took some deep, head-clearing breaths as Aramis came to join them. Then Athos turned to Porthos, and in a shaky, barely controlled voice, he said, “You’re right, of course. When we leave in the morning, they’ll be none the wiser.”

Then Athos walked away quickly, leaving Porthos to explain to Aramis what they had found.

* TM * TM * TM *

Having passed a restless night in his room at the inn, Athos rose as the sun touched the horizon and headed downstairs in the hopes of having one small encounter with d’Artagnan during which the older musketeer did not exude malice and anger. Porthos had predicted, and Aramis had been quick to agree, that given the young man’s precarious physical and mental state, any revelation that would force him to try and be even more duplicitous could be catastrophic. Aramis had been quite adamant that d’Artagnan was still susceptible to headaches and confusion after his concussion, and he was more than a little concerned about the impact of another burden on the lad’s already overtaxed mind. Athos tried to argue that telling d’Artagnan the trio was now content to watch and see what he had in mind would alleviate some of the burden, but Aramis disagreed, saying it would only force the Gascon to be even more careful about every statement and every move he made, and therefore he’d be more likely to make a mistake somewhere along the way, due to his mental exhaustion and physical weakness.

Grumpy, but unable to think of anything valid to counter their argument, Athos had contented himself with the idea that if he couldn’t say anything to d’Artagnan, today he would at least offer the young man a smile. Not a big smile, for the Comte de la Fère was not one to show such emotion, not even were he to be offered his life’s dream come true, but a small, enigmatic smile, not unlike the one on the painting of the _Mona Lisa_ that he had once seen hanging in the Palace of Fontainebleau. It would give away nothing to Baudin or his men, and leave d’Artagnan just as perplexed as before, but perhaps just slightly lighter in heart when it was offered in lieu of the vitriol of the past few days. It was a minor gesture, but in light of the wisdom of Porthos and Aramis, it was all that he could do, and he was determined to do it.

Armed with this small peace offering, Athos requested of the innkeeper he found downstairs that some food be prepared for himself and his companions, anticipating another long day of riding on the way back to Paris. Receiving a half-hearted but not unfriendly response, he headed outside and poured a ladle of water on his head from the bucket sitting on the edge of the well to wake himself up. Based on the last few days, Athos guessed it wouldn’t be long before Baudin and d’Artagnan came outside as well, and so he moved on to the stables, thinking it would be the most unsuspicious place to encounter the young man, and with a smile offered right in front of Baudin, d’Artagnan could hardly be accused of being in league with the musketeers, unless Baudin thought all of them completely stupid when it came to matters of deception and strategy.

Athos opened the barn door and headed to his horse’s stall, at first quite confident but quickly growing concerned as he saw empty stalls on either side of him. The stalls had all been full last night, with d’Artagnan’s mount nearest his own. He walked quickly now, finding his horse safe in its stall, but the stall that had held d’Artagnan’s horse was empty and the tack missing. He jerked his head around, hoping that he had simply been mistaken, or that the horse had been moved. But he had not, and it had not, and neither could he see Baudin’s horse or equipment. 

Irrational fear gripping him—what was there to be afraid of, after all? D’Artagnan as yet knew nothing of the others’ discovery—Athos burst out of the stables and back to the inn. “Where have they gone?” he demanded of the innkeeper.

The older man looked startled at the intensity of the musketeer so early in the day. “I beg your pardon, sir?” he asked.

“The others—there were other horses in the stables. Where have the riders gone?”

The innkeeper raised his eyebrows. “The rest of your party, sir? They left more than an hour ago. Asked me to prepare rations for a day’s journey.” He shrugged. “There are only you, and the other two musketeers you roomed with, still here.”

Athos felt a cold stone drop into his stomach. “Did they say anything about leaving like this?” he asked.

The innkeeper considered. “Not to me specifically, sir. I thought it was part of your plans.” Athos scowled, frustrated and upset. The innkeeper added, perhaps in an attempt to be helpful, “The young one—he’s a musketeer, too, isn’t he—he seemed upset when he and Monsieur Baudin returned late last night together. I heard Monsieur tell him that he would think of something to make it easier for him.”

“What was he upset about?” Athos asked, still hearing d’Artagnan’s despairing words in the chapel.

“I do not know, sir. But after the lad retired, I was asked for some herbs for a draught, so perhaps he was unwell. And then Monsieur Baudin gave me instructions for early this morning and said they would be departing before daylight.”

Athos nodded, numb. “Have the food I asked for ready in ten minutes,” he said. “We must depart at once.”

The innkeeper nodded agreement and left to follow his instructions. Athos raced upstairs to wake his brothers, with fear flowing through him that they would never again have the chance to bring d’Artagnan back into their embrace.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn what is in our Gascon's head... but is it too late?

Athos burst into the musketeers’ room at the inn, finding Aramis and Porthos already up and dressing. They looked at him, not terribly surprised at the unrested look on his face, but taken aback by the urgency of his entry. When he explained what he’d found, and the ensuing conversation with the innkeeper, the others agreed that it would be prudent to leave immediately. But Aramis advised a peaceful and measured approach.

“It’s possible he’s trying to help him,” the musketeer proposed gently. He finished pulling on his boots and stood up. Understanding the anxiety in Athos’s eyes, he gripped his friend’s arm to try and ground him. Athos looked at him, not comprehending. Aramis looked him in the eye. “You both said d’Artagnan sounded like he was at breaking point last night, that he told Baudin being with us hurts him.” Athos nodded unhappily. “He is struggling, Athos. Perhaps Baudin is taking him away from that.”

The possibility, once spoken, left them all speechless with devastation, though none of them could deny the validity of the idea. Despite what they thought of Baudin’s political ideas, they knew he had treated d’Artagnan—at least when they had witnessed their encounters, even in secret—with nothing but kindness and respect. He had been a brother to the young man, when d’Artagnan felt he’d lost the ones with whom he’d left Paris. 

Lost, Athos knew, because he himself had stripped d’Artagnan of the title. He nodded wordlessly, and his shoulders slumped. “Perhaps he is,” he said, the defeat in his voice apparent.

They all stood uncomfortably for a moment, until Porthos spoke up. “Then let’s catch up with him and sort this out so he knows it’s not like that any more, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aramis agreed, after seeing that Athos wasn’t going to respond in any useful way. “The sooner we get to Paris, the easier it will be to extract our young friend from Baudin.”

“And probably save him from himself.” 

* TM * TM * TM *

Baudin slowed his horse down, allowing d’Artagnan to ride alone in his thoughts. The young man had agreed last night that it was a good idea to depart before the sun came up, without Athos, Aramis, and Porthos alongside them. Baudin had suggested it, seeing d’Artagnan’s melancholy, thinking that it would help them both to keep the musketeers at a distance. Surprisingly, the Gascon had agreed without protest, a sign to Baudin that d’Artagnan was loosening his ties with the trio, even if his heart was breaking. An unfortunate but necessary event, Baudin thought, and though he was unwavering in his goal, he felt genuine sympathy for the lad, whom he sensed would be a strong leader in their movement, now that he believed he, at last, had d’Artagnan’s complete commitment. 

He brought his mount close to Moreaux’s, and leaned in. “Take some men and make sure the musketeers don’t have a chance to rejoin us,” he instructed. “Do whatever you have to do.”

He waited till Moreaux quietly gathered his party and turned back the way they had come, then spurred his horse to come back alongside d’Artagnan. “Come, let’s move a bit faster,” he suggested, noting that the young man didn’t seem to have noticed the departure of some of their group. “If we want to make it to Paris tomorrow, we’ll need to make good time today.” 

D’Artagnan simply nodded, his eyes still pools of sorrow, and he urged his horse forward, as though he was reluctant to speak at all, leaving Baudin to try and keep up.

* TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan slid off his saddle when the group stopped to eat and rest their horses, frowning as he looked around them for the first time since Baudin had urged them to quicken their pace. He’d ridden in a fog since leaving Anet, trying desperately to come to grips with his grief. Nothing would ever be as devastating as the loss of his father, so he had once thought, but the anguish he felt now was crushing him. 

“Where are your men?” he asked, feeling disconnected from himself.

Seeing the confusion on the lad’s face, Baudin walked up to him and smiled kindly. “I sent a few of them off a couple of hours ago to do reconnaissance. We must be careful, d’Artagnan. There will be people who are not sympathetic to our cause, disguised as those who do.”

D’Artagnan nodded, concerned that he had not even noticed the men’s departure. Now, he scanned the road they had just traveled, still looking, still hoping somewhere in his heart of hearts, but seeing no one.

He had never explained to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis what he was doing, or why; he had expected to be alone with Athos that morning in Vassy, so he could ask for help with his quickly-concocted strategy: to pretend to go along with Baudin, learn of his plans, and then testify against him to the King. Louis was nothing if not loyal to those he blindly believed in, and it would be necessary to have proof of his treachery. But the young man’s expectations had been dashed thanks to Baudin’s insistence on a constant chaperone, and though he had hoped Athos would see through his faltering cover story, the musketeer had instead dismissed him with breathtaking fury. Still unwell after being attacked the night before, d’Artagnan could think of no other option but to try and foil Baudin’s plans himself, and pray for a chance to enlighten his friends. But the chance never came.

He worried about the consequences to his brothers if he was discovered, or if he was instead seen by the King as a co-conspirator, and he trembled visibly whenever he saw the accusation in their eyes, or heard it in their tone. And so d’Artagnan pushed the trio away, telling Aramis outright that they needed to leave him alone, and admitting that he was sympathetic toward Athos’s bitterness. Doing so nearly killed him, but he wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —take any chances with their lives. He had prayed, prayed ceaselessly, that they would see through his actions. But now, noting their continued absence, he knew that he had lost them for good.

“I expected Athos, Aramis, and Porthos to have caught up with us by now,” d’Artagnan murmured, not sure if he was addressing Baudin, or talking to himself.

“Did you want them to?” Baudin asked.

D’Artagnan looked at Baudin beside him, then looked at the ground. 

“You were hoping they would insist upon it,” Baudin guessed softly. D’Artagnan shrugged one shoulder ever so slightly. Baudin laid his hand on it. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan. I know this has been very difficult for you.”

“They have given up on me,” d’Artagnan said in a voice so small that the Inseparables would barely have recognized it.

“I thought it would help you, not constantly seeing them judge you. Perhaps I was mistaken. Do you want to turn back and catch them up?” Baudin asked gently.

But d’Artagnan shook his head. “No,” he answered, his eyes still downcast. “It’s better this way. It’s...” He paused, took a shaking breath, and then looked at Baudin, his eyes unnaturally bright, “It’s better this way.”

Baudin tightened his grip on the young man’s shoulder. “I will not abandon you, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan offered a watery smile in return. “I know.”

“Let us eat. I want you to see what is planned for our return to Paris tomorrow. If this doesn’t make Louis act, nothing will. I promise you, d’Artagnan: your sacrifice will be remembered, and it will be worth it.”

D’Artagnan was certain Baudin was right. If he could do even the smallest thing to stop Baudin, and save his brothers, then his loss would not be in vain.

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos raised an eyebrow as the musketeers saw some of Baudin’s men heading toward them with speed on horseback. “Look sharp, gentlemen,” he told the others. The trio brought their horses to a halt and waited for the group to approach.

“Musketeers, you need to abandon your journey.”

The Inseparables glanced at each other in that way that allowed them to hold a whole conversation without a single word, then looked back at Moreaux, who had spoken.

“Why would that be?” Athos asked.

“Because that’s what Baudin wants.” Moreaux considered. “And what the rest of us want.”

“All of you?” Athos queried.

“If you’re referring to your wet-behind-the-ears musketeer puppy, yes, I’m referring to him, too.”

Porthos sat stiffer in the saddle. Though the musketeers occasionally teased d’Artagnan about his youth and inexperience in comparison to themselves, this traitorous, loathsome man had no right to talk about the Gascon this way. For when the brothers made reference to these traits, it was done with affection, with no question in their minds about the young man’s dedication and loyalty. When Moreaux made the comments, it was out of spite and distaste. Now knowing what their youngest was trying to accomplish—without the help of himself, Athos, and Aramis—made Porthos all the more fierce in his protectiveness of d’Artagnan’s status, and he let out a low, dangerous growl.

Aramis heard the sound and dipped his head, a signal to the big musketeer to mind his cover. “We are in no hurry to rejoin your party,” he said. “But this _is_ the road to Paris, and in case it’s slipped your mind, we work for the King, so we must get back there.”

“You won’t be going back there today,” Moreaux told him.

Athos cocked his head to one side. “D’Artagnan is working with Baudin on whatever plan he has to help the Protestants. He does so willingly and, from what we’ve witnessed, well. We’ve shared the road peacefully up to now. What makes you suddenly think we pose such a danger?”

“Not so much a danger, as a distraction.” Moreaux snorted. “Baudin thinks you’ve hurt the insignificant little yaldson.” 

“And if we have?” Athos countered, his voice hard from the truth of the accusation, and anger at the insult to d’Artagnan. “Why would we care? He’s been no friend to us since we left Vassy.”

Moreaux nodded. “So it seems,” he agreed. “But unlike Baudin, I don’t trust him so easily. _He_ thinks the _fils de la putain_ is strong enough to resist you. _I_ do not.”

“Why not?” asked Porthos, finding his voice. His companions could hear the barely-concealed desire to act in the big man’s tone, but, to his credit, he kept his voice steady.

Moreaux laughed out loud. “Because he is a musketeer!” Then the smile left his face, and he looked at the trio with humourless eyes. “If I had my way, he would be dead. Keeping you apart may just make it easier for that to happen.”

Aramis pasted a smile onto his face. “You may attend to your desires on your own time,” he said smoothly. “But I’m afraid, sir, that we must insist on continuing our journey. The King expects us tomorrow, and we must not disappoint.” He nodded to Moreaux and his companions. “So if you’ll be so kind as to move aside...”

It was a surprise to no one that the marksman’s request was met with scorn. When the musketeers moved as though to spur their horses, Baudin’s men responded by reaching for their weapons. The musketeers did the same, and within seconds, the fight was on.

* TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan sat on a fallen tree trunk, his head hung low. He had eaten little, despite knowing that he needed to be at his best to continue. There was no chance of anyone helping him now, and the idea of it sickened him in heart and body; forcing more food into himself would only result in it reappearing later, he was certain. His mind drifted to what he would do when he got back to Paris. Without the brotherhood of Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, his future as a musketeer lacked any of its previous shine. Their judgment of him, no matter how this turned out, would be tarnished by the multitude of things that had gone wrong on this mission. He had set out in the hopes of proving himself worthy to King Louis; now, even if he didn’t completely fail in that, he had certainly lost the love and respect of the three men whose regard meant more to him than anything else he had left in this world. Porthos had been injured; Aramis questioned his true motives; and Athos... 

The burn of threatening tears assaulted his eyes when he thought of the man he considered his mentor. It had taken so much to gain his trust—not surprising, d’Artagnan knew, when at their first meeting the Gascon had tried to kill him; and then after that, when he had learned of Athos’s secret, he was surprised the man let _anyone_ into his heart—so much to gain his respect and his love, and now, all he could see was the look on the older musketeer’s face when d’Artagnan told him he going to work with Baudin; all he could hear, mercilessly, repeatedly, was Athos’s declaration that he was shaming his father’s name, and that of the musketeers. That he was no longer a brother. And that he wanted d’Artagnan to leave. _Get out!_ Athos had screamed, and the agony that ripped through d’Artagnan like a knife at those words had never, ever left him.

Even if they knew what he had intended, it was too late, he knew now. He would have to resign his very short-lived commission. Walking through the garrison, seeing Athos, Porthos, and Aramis bonding as brothers, perhaps stealing glances in his direction—scornful, or pitying, either way was just as bad—he knew he wouldn’t be able to take it. They would never accept him back into their fold. Not when, even now, they were content to stay away on the journey home. Leaving would be the only thing he could do. What had he been thinking by agreeing to travel without them? Perhaps it was just as well, he decided. Better to have more time to reconcile himself to the idea of giving up the musketeer life, than to have it thrust upon him coldly and suddenly when they got back to Paris. But where would he go? There was no farm in Lupiac any more. Constance had given him away. 

He had nowhere. He had nothing. 

He had no one.

Almost like when he had arrived in Paris so many months ago. Only this time, he had a second, third, and fourth, death to mourn in his heart. And nothing to defend, not even himself. He was, he knew, indefensible. 

He was on the verge of sobbing. His elbows on his knees, he braced his forehead in his hands and closed his eyes. He didn’t bother looking up when he heard footsteps approaching.

Baudin’s voice landed softly. “Headache?”

“Hm,” d’Artagnan replied. It wasn’t a lie.

He felt Baudin sit down beside him. “The journey is nearly over, d’Artagnan. Soon Louis will know that the people will take no more of his indecision about the rights of Protestants, and he will act swiftly.”

D’Artagnan didn’t care any more. He didn’t care about the King, he didn’t care about the Protestants, he didn’t care about his plan. The gut-wrenching, ice-cold realization that he had lost everything in his attempt to do right had drained the very life out of him. It took every ounce of energy just to respond. “He hasn’t been indecisive,” d’Artagnan replied wearily, tired of the charade but not knowing of another path to take. “He has sworn to uphold the Edict of Nantes. He has been quite tolerant.”

He heard a small snort of derision come from Baudin. “Tolerant,” Baudin repeated. “You mean he hasn’t killed any Protestants recently. That’s all, really. There’s still no movement from thirty years ago. But there will be, d’Artagnan. Take a look at this.”

D’Artagnan reluctantly opened his eyes to see Baudin opening what appeared to be a hand-designed map on the ground. “We will reach Paris late tomorrow morning. You and I will go straight to the palace and report to Louis regarding the difficult visit to Vassy.”

_Difficult,_ d’Artagnan repeated in his head. _There are better words._

“There is much to tell, and when Louis learns of your poor treatment, and the anger of the people, he will feel closer to you and me than ever before. As there will then be much planning to do regarding a response, I will suggest that we continue the discussion over a midday meal. Louis will agree. He always sees the sense in my words.” 

D’Artagnan’s brain gave a small start at the idea of dining with the King, then he shook it away and tried to force himself to focus. There must be some way to discredit Baudin in all of this planning. Why not do one last good thing before leaving the musketeers? He could then, perhaps, have one thing to look back on with honor when he was alone.

“As happens every other day while Louis and the Queen have their midday meal, a governess or other lady-in-waiting will take the Dauphin out for some fresh air. Those in attendance on the Dauphin leave from here.” Baudin pointed to a section of the map that had a drawing of the Royal Palace. “Almost invariably, they head in this direction.” His finger moved past a drawing of some trees and toward a representation of a small stream.

“My men will be waiting nearby, and they will take the Dauphin. You and I will, of course, have Louis’s complete trust and remain close to him during this tragic time, and advise him as to how to bring it to a successful end. That will, of course, include concessions to the repressed of France.”

D’Artagnan tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head. “Wait. Are you saying you’re going to kidnap the Dauphin?” Baudin didn’t answer immediately. D’Artagnan grew more alarmed. “What of his minders?”

“His minders will be attended to,” Baudin answered, his tone merciless, and strong. 

_Constance!_ D’Artagnan had sworn he would never stop loving her, and he discovered the truth of it when Baudin’s words struck fear in him for her safety; she was known to occasionally join the ladies who took a stroll with the Dauphin. “You are known in the court; these women may recognize your men,” d’Artagnan said. “What then?”

Baudin’s tone did not change when he looked at d’Artagnan. “We will do what is necessary.”

D’Artagnan was glad that he’d not pretended to agree with everything Baudin said and planned. This plan alarmed him for many reasons, the potential danger to Constance among them, but the thought of the infant being swept away and used as a pawn in this political game most of all. “When the truth gets out, Baudin, people will hang.”

“Only if there are witnesses.”

“There will be witnesses,” d’Artagnan pressed. “When the King responds as you wish and the Dauphin is released, his minders will tell everything they have seen.”

Baudin said nothing. D’Artagnan’s blood ran cold. “You plan to kill them.”

“D’Artagnan—”

“You cannot do this!” d’Artagnan declared.

“The Dauphin will be kept safe with our people. You and I, as friends of the King, will advise Louis that he must not seek revenge, out of fear of another attack. However if he does not listen, the people of Vassy and Anet, and others like them, will be ready.”

“They will not stand against the King’s entire army.”

“And the King’s entire army will not dare move if the Dauphin is in danger of returning to enemy hands. The Queen alone will ensure that.”

D’Artagnan’s heart clenched. What could he do? What could he do _alone?_ He felt physically sick. He needed time to think about this. And his time was limited; they would reach Paris in less than a day. “You have thought things out well,” D’Artagnan said truthfully. He stood abruptly. He could not think sitting still. “Let’s continue our journey,” he proposed. “We must decide the future once and for all.”

_For you... **and** for me._


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Paris!  
> Will d'Artagnan be able to save the day?  
> Will the boys catch up with him?  
> PLEASE let me know what you think!  
> Thank you all SO much for your feedback and encouragement!  
> * TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan woke just as daylight was breaking, not really sure when he’d fallen asleep or how long he had lain awake thinking before his eyes had finally closed. He was feeling anything but rested; his shoulder had started aching distractingly thanks to the day’s ride and his lack of concern for keeping it supported while it healed, and a light drumming was still throbbing in his skull. Vaguely, he wondered if that would ever go away. At least the nausea had diminished, although when he thought of what lay ahead today, his stomach rolled. 

He pulled himself up from the ground, letting his cape which had served as a blanket fall down to his waist. He grimaced as he stretched out the stiffness and the twinges, and rubbed his face, trying to force himself into a state of alertness. He looked around and saw Baudin sleeping nearby, and the others stirring but not waking. Then his eyes focused on the path they had travelled before stopping last night, and strained to see if anyone was approaching. Of course no one was, but d’Artagnan couldn’t help but continue to feel a deep, horrible pain at being alone.

After he had learned of Baudin’s plan yesterday, d’Artagnan had pushed for the group to almost gallop back to Paris, and they had made good time, stopping for the night only when it became impossible to see the road ahead and ensure their horses didn’t misstep or fall in a rabbit hole and injure themselves. Briefly, d’Artagnan wondered if Moreaux and the others who had gone on reconnaissance with him would be able to catch up, and now, as he looked at the men around him, he realized that they had not. Or perhaps, he wondered, they had gone ahead to wait in the trees near the palace.

His breath caught in his throat at the scene that Baudin was expecting to unfold in the next few hours. He was still at a loss about how to stop it; blurting out the truth to the King would only result in him being laughed at, or potentially being considered a co-conspirator who was just out to save his own skin. The latter didn’t really concern him, as long as the objective was met; he considered his life forfeit now, anyway. But the possibility that no one would listen to him, or that speaking out could result in an even worse outcome for the Dauphin, terrified him. And he could think of no way to counteract that feeling, except by moving.

He stood up, reached down and retrieved his cloak, and started walking over to his horse when Baudin’s voice startled him. “You’re up very early.”

D’Artagnan stopped, turned to Baudin and offered a brief upturn of his lips. “Good morning.”

Baudin got up as d’Artagnan folded his cloak to put with his things. “A big day today,” the man said.

D’Artagnan nodded. “I know.”

“How do you feel about it?”

D’Artagnan considered his answer as Baudin came up beside him. “I understand why you’ve chosen this path,” he replied. “I just don’t like the idea of the Dauphin’s minders being harmed.”

“The innocent often suffer in war,” Baudin said.

“These are _women_ ,” d’Artagnan stressed. “Women are rarely casualties of war.” Baudin said nothing, as it was clear d’Artagnan was still thinking. “But I suppose this is no ordinary war.”

“We will only do what we must, d’Artagnan. Be assured.”

Baudin’s gentle voice led the Gascon to believe him. He wished that the man wasn’t so hell bent on forcing the changes in a hurry. Surely he could talk with the King, and his childhood friend would be made to understand the predicament that so many were in. D’Artagnan had fleetingly considered the religious ramifications of being in love with Constance—for her sake, not for his; his Gascon passion wouldn’t let him deeply think about going to hell for taking a woman from her husband—but as much as he adored her, he would not have threatened the next King of France to accomplish his goal. What was his love, his heart, next to all of France? Much as it may have killed him, he could not have taken the steps Baudin was taking now, most of which, d’Artagnan suspected, were out of love of the woman he had told him about.

Not that d’Artagnan would have to worry about facing that dilemma, he thought with a prick of unhappiness; Constance was done with him. After this, he thought, it would turn out to be the best decision she could have made.

But the chance that she could be out with the Dauphin—or the _Queen_ could be out with them for the day—was making his heart beat so hard it hurt, so his mind was spinning, trying to think of a way to stop this from happening, knowing that if Athos, Aramis, and Porthos were here, there would be an answer, cursing the fact that he had lost them not only for himself, but for the King, for the Dauphin, for Constance.

He felt lightheaded momentarily, so overpowering was the knowledge that only he, of those loyal to the monarchy, was aware of what was to come. Only he had any chance at all of stopping it.

And he had no plan, no plan at all.

So why was he rushing them all to get back to Paris? He was of two minds: slow down their progress, which would only delay the inevitable; or rush in headlong to get through this as quickly as possible. The latter seemed the better choice. He always did think better under pressure, and there was certainly pressure now. He’d think of something. He’d _have_ to think of something.

“Moreaux and the others... they haven’t returned,” he said to Baudin now.

“No,” Baudin said, a small frown creasing his features that quickly disappeared. “They continue their work.” He furrowed his brow. “You look pensive. I can guess why.” D’Artagnan lowered his head. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan,” Baudin said softly.

“It doesn’t matter,” d’Artagnan replied, shaking his head. “How soon can we leave?”

Baudin’s smile returned. “I’ll wake the others. We’ll be on the road by the time the sky has full light.”

* TM * TM * TM *

Athos opened his eyes, and immediately frowned. He didn’t remember falling asleep, and to be honest, he hadn’t wanted to. He turned his head, looking for Aramis and Porthos, and found the latter dead to the world nearer to the fire, which had died down over the course of the night and which was now mainly smoke and embers. Moving to stand up, he paused when the awkwardness of the position he had dozed in revealed kinks now in his neck and shoulders, and he stretched past them, tilting his head from side to side and flexing his arms to loosen the muscles in his shoulders and back. He was used to being so ready to move first thing in the morning; when they were at the garrison he’d sometimes lie in bed for ten minutes before deciding it was wise to move. Other times, when he’d overindulged, he’d dip his whole head into a bucket of water and hope for the best. But today, he wanted to be up and moving, and quickly, and he cursed that he could already see daylight creeping into the sky.

Aramis’s voice from behind him startled him. “I was going to let you sleep longer. You were restless last night.”

Athos turned to see the marksman approaching from the tree beyond, against which the last of Baudin’s men was propped, tied and gagged. It had taken longer than they had expected to complete their battle with Moreaux and his companions; though they were not soldiers, their swordfighting ability was solid enough to make the musketeers work hard at achieving victory. Knowing of Porthos’s injuries, they had tried to focus on the large man. But not knowing of his fortitude, they had made the error of thinking it would be easy to subdue him. He snapped one of the two men set upon him like a twig; the other, Joubert, had received a sword thrust to the right shoulder and, without the need to kill him as Athos and Aramis had found necessary with the others, he was captured, in the hopes of using him to help clear d’Artagnan of any wrongdoing.

“If you treat him so nicely, he’s going to be less inclined to tell us what we need to know,” Athos observed, ignoring Aramis’s statement.

“And if he dies of infection, we’ll know nothing at all.” Aramis studied his friend’s face in the early morning light. “What’s wrong?”

“Hmf—nothing,” Athos replied. He looked around them, eyes straining to see any sign of trouble. There was none. “I just...” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

Aramis put his hand on the musketeer’s shoulder. “We’ll find him today,” he said, knowing his friend was thinking of d’Artagnan. “We know where they’re going; we’ll find him.”

Athos said nothing, focusing instead on the trees, the grass, the horses waiting to be saddled nearby. They had ridden as far and as quickly as they could after they had fought off Moreaux and the others, far past the time when any reasonable people would have stopped for the night, and yet they had still not caught up to their youngest.

He looked back up at Joubert and growled, ready to tear information from the man regardless of their need to keep him alive. _Heart over head,_ he thought fleetingly. _Just like d’Artagnan._ The thought of the impetuousness of the Gascon stabbed him, as suddenly he would give anything to see the lad behaving impulsively, if only it meant being reunited with him, both physically and in heart. 

The torture didn’t go unnoticed by Aramis, who squeezed his shoulder a little more tightly. “I’ll wake Porthos. I want him to eat before we go; he cannot heal unless his body has what it needs. We’ll be on the road soon.”

Athos nodded, his stare still fixed on Joubert, his mind still locked on d’Artagnan. He vowed he would make things right today, or die trying.

* TM * TM * TM *

They stopped for a few minutes’ rest when Paris was at last in sight, and d’Artagnan wasn’t sure whether he should be worried, or relieved. He settled on a mix of both, as he had spent the last three hours trying to work out a plan, and only partially succeeding, but knowing that he needed to take action or he would surely lose the slim grip he had on his sanity and his self-respect. He’d wracked his brain looking for a solution, and now his head ached nearly as fiercely as it had that first night, only this time he knew one of Aramis’s concoctions wouldn’t cure it. 

What had begun back in Vassy, had to finish today.

So deep in thought was he that he didn’t get down off his horse, instead still staring at the city in the distance. The sun was now high in the sky. There was less than an hour’s ride to the palace. Somewhere out there, Baudin’s men were waiting for the Dauphin and his carers. Part of him still worried that the Inseparables hadn’t caught up with them, but if he was honest with himself he didn’t have the energy to focus on that now; the likelihood that they would join him in time, even if he was willing to abandon all pretence and tell them everything he had been doing, even if they were willing to believe him, was slim, and so he had to abandon his miserable thoughts and focus. But it was hard to do, and a sharp twinge had him draw a hand up to his brow and lower his head.

Still in this position a few seconds later, Baudin’s voice reached his ears from below. “You are unwell, d’Artagnan,” he said.

 _He never, ever leaves me alone,_ d’Artagnan thought, a prick of anger piercing him, as he considered that this was the very reason he had been unable to tell his brothers—his former brothers—what he was thinking. The few seconds he had had alone with the trio had been filled with concern for Porthos— _how could he have allowed Porthos to be hurt?_ —and then the chance to explain was gone. 

“I am anxious to move on; that is all,” the Gascon replied sharply.

“Our work is nearly done. Today, you will find peace of mind.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “I doubt that.” He lowered his hand and looked down at Baudin. “Your men have not returned. And they have not passed us.” _Please the Lord, may they have been stopped by Athos, Aramis, and Porthos—even if you despise me, please recognize the need to stop them._

“It is a disappointment,” Baudin admitted. D’Artagnan froze at the lack of concern for his own men in Baudin’s words. “But we must go on. And if they have not taken another route to Paris, others will already be lying in wait at the appointed place. We had to consider the possibility to resistance when we began this endeavour. All will go to plan.”

D’Artagnan cursed the man’s forethought. “Then what are we waiting for?” he asked, looking back toward the city.

He could hear the smile in Baudin’s voice when he replied. “Be at ease, d’Artagnan. We must be of sound mind to face Louis. Weariness will not work in our favor. Come off your horse; let him rest. Drink, and have something to eat. Today it all begins.”

D’Artagnan nodded, his mind filtering back to his one-time brothers, knowing that after the events of the day, whatever the outcome, things would never be the same. _And today,_ he thought glumly, _it all ends._

* TM * TM * TM *

King Louis the Thirteenth shook his head and frowned from his seat in the throne room at the palace. After a long wait to see the sovereign, so long that d’Artagnan feared Baudin’s plan would have been completely carried out before the pair were even received, Baudin had explained everything that had happened in Vassy, conveniently leaving out his part in the events, and making d’Artagnan sound like a valiant but helpless victim. “I must say, Antoine, I am very disappointed in the people of Vassy. I send my envoy—one of my dearest friends—with four of my musketeers—whom I sent to show my sincerity about wanting to improve relations with these misguided peasants—and their response is not only to refuse my generous gesture, but to slap my outstretched hand.” He sniffed. “That’s really very unfair.”

“Agreed, Sire,” Baudin answered. “We knew that there was discontent. But I could not have anticipated the treatment meted out to d’Artagnan. He was nothing but civil to the residents of that town. And they did nothing but abuse him.”

“How are you faring now, d’Artagnan?” asked Queen Anne from beside her husband. “Are you fully recovered?”

Her look of genuine concern brought a small bit of comfort to the Gascon, who, aware of his still-dishevelled look after a long ride, bowed slightly when he was directly addressed. “Please, Your Majesty need not concern herself with my health,” he replied humbly.

A kind smile was his reward. “I am always concerned about the people who so bravely do the King’s bidding. I’m certain Captain Tréville will grant you some time to rest before we see you on guard duty again here at the palace.”

Her eyes moved to the leader of the musketeers, who had been summoned to join them when they met with the King. Rochefort, also, was in attendance, and while d’Artagnan had nothing to say to the latter, he was more than yearning to speak to the former, at the very least to find out if Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had returned to the garrison. But as before, he had no time alone with anyone but Baudin, and so he could only offer the Captain a rueful smile and superficial greetings, and pray that the man figured out that something was amiss.

“He will have all the time he needs, Your Majesty,” Tréville said now.

The Queen nodded, then smiled at d’Artagnan. “I am pleased to hear it. Tell us, was there any positive outcome at all?”

“Yes, I’d like to know that,” Louis said; “they did agree to have one of their prominent citizens speak with you. Did that also lead to nothing?”

“Lip service, Sire,” Baudin replied. “And thinly veiled threats from the outset.” He glanced at d’Artagnan. “From the very beginning, he was cultivating poor relations between us and the people of Vassy.”

The monarch picked up on his friend’s gaze toward the Gascon, and aimed his question at the young man. “Oh? How so?”

D’Artagnan shrugged, and then said simply, “He seemed to be fond of the theory that the only good musketeer, is a dead musketeer.”

“And someone tried to prove it!” the King declared. “This is unacceptable. I sent _four_ musketeers, I believe, Captain. Where are the others? Have the people of Vassy made good on their uncivilized threat?”

“No, Sire,” Baudin replied quickly. “They simply spread out to scan the area and make sure there were no incidents on the way back to Paris. I expect they will join us some time later today.”

“Well, when that happens, I want them to report to me,” the King said. “See to it, Tréville.” 

The Captain gave a respectful nod. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“I’m very cross about this, Antoine. The King of France is not used to being treated in such a manner. Rochefort, you and Tréville must find just the right response for this insult. See to it.”

He moved to stand, signaling he was about to dismiss those in the room. Baudin piped up, “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I believe we should have your input.”

“Mine?” the King asked.

“Yes, Sire. May I point out that whatever is done will be in the name of France, and as this was a very personal offense, perhaps it would be wise to have a very personal response.”

“Hmf," sniffed Louis. He considered. “Of course, you are right,” he said finally. “But let us devise this plan while we eat. You will, of course, join us. And you, d’Artagnan.”

The Gascon chewed his bottom lip and looked woefully at the King. “If Your Majesty would be so indulgent, I’m still feeling a little… off color, and would like to take some rest back at the garrison.”

“Your insight into what happened in Vassy will be invaluable, d’Artagnan,” Louis pressed.

D’Artagnan felt the blood drain from his face as he suddenly carried the full weight of his singular strategy. His last attempt at changing things without exposure had failed. He would have to defy the King in order to save the Dauphin. It would be another reason for Louis to express his disappointment, another way that d’Artagnan would prove that he was unfit to be a musketeer. Standing only rooms away from where Louis had admonished him following the Dauphin’s christening, he could hear the words echoing clearly even now: _Are you taking sides with a traitor against your king?_ He was not—not then, not now. But until he was successful in his mission, no amount of explaining would convince the King otherwise.

He opened his mouth to tell the King he would not be joining him, when the Queen spoke. “Sire, Monsieur d’Artagnan looks extremely unwell. As much as he asks that I not consider his health, it is apparent that he has not fully recovered from his ordeal, and I doubt he would have the ability to concentrate on strategy in his current condition. I would consider it a gift to me, to allow him to return to his garrison to rest.”

The King looked down at d’Artagnan standing before him, his head bowed, his face ashen and drawn. “Hm—perhaps you’re right,” the monarch said. He looked at his wife. “And you are a very compassionate woman.” Anne smiled radiantly. “You will join us later, d’Artagnan. You may go now.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan replied softly. He swayed slightly, the light-headedness he felt genuine. He’d been ready to commit what could be considered a court martial offense as a soldier, and the Queen herself had unwittingly prevented it being necessary. He was unprepared for the change in fortunes.

“I will accompany him back to the garrison,” Baudin offered, his hand coming up to d’Artagnan’s elbow. 

But the Gascon moved away immediately. “I don’t wish to be an imposition. You need Monsieur Baudin, Sire, and my horse knows the way to the garrison, even if I fall asleep in the saddle. I’ll be fine.”

Then he bowed low to the King and Queen, ignored Rochefort, avoided Baudin’s face, sought Tréville’s, and departed, practically running to his horse once he got out of the room. They had been waiting and then talking for a long, long time; he worried that he might already be too late.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter!  
> Thanks for your indulgence, this is a much longer story than I intended!  
> Things come to a head! PLEASE let me know your thoughts!

Ignoring the now almost sickening pounding in his head and the cutting pain in his shoulder, d’Artagnan leapt onto his horse and raced for the small stream where he knew the Dauphin’s carers and entourage went on their daily constitutional. Though the infant would have some protection by the men always sent to guard the royal family, on minor outings like this it was a much smaller group. He didn’t know how many of Baudin’s men would be lying in wait for the party, but he was certain he wasn’t going to let them take the Dauphin without a fight. 

Riding hard, his mind automatically clarified the situation. Sitting still, waiting for an event, all he could do was turn things over, make plans, and then see the holes in them. Acting, doing—it all seemed to come together of its own accord. Less time. Fewer choices. He realized now that this was why he had been hurrying to get back: unconsciously, he knew this was how his mind worked, and the waiting, the planning, had been killing him. Now, with the wind whipping his hair back from his face, drying the sweat forming on his brow, discomfort and adrenaline keeping him alert despite a lack of sleep, he was able to break everything down. 

The Queen was safe. When he and Baudin had arrived back at the palace, the King had them wait almost an hour before he saw them. And then, when he did grant them an audience, she was there, and Baudin had slowly, purposefully, drawn out the tale of their journey for as long as possible. Knowing it was past the time to commence the daily outing Baudin was counting on as part of his plan, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but be relieved at Her Majesty’s presence. That was one less thing to worry about now. He registered the fact and put it aside.

Captain Tréville was at the palace. If Baudin made a move, at least there was someone there who could help protect the royal couple. That fear was also diminished.

It was only the kind-heartedness of the Queen that had saved d’Artagnan this morning, something that he also briefly reflected may have indicated she had forgiven him for the whole Spanish galley slave kidnapping fiasco. Perhaps, after this, the King would forgive him as well? He shook the thought away. If he didn’t save their son, then any forgiveness would be replaced by much more than distaste. D’Artagnan had taken a big chance when he requested to be excused from dining with Louis. God, he wished he could have said something out loud, right then and there, where there were people like Tréville who could back him up. But he knew in his heart he was right in his thinking: the King would laugh, Baudin would protest, and then, at the insistence of the King himself, no one would be heading to the stream to save the Dauphin. This was the only way.

He wondered how many people Baudin had sent to fulfill this task, how many he would have to fight on his own, and how useful anyone who had gone out with the Dauphin and the women would be. True, there were usually one or two Red Guards in attendance, he thought now, but it was more often than not the less weathered of the men, and from his experience duelling—or, rather, disagreeing, since duelling was forbidden—with them, he knew that their techniques could be awkward, and sometimes ineffective.

His first priority, of course, was the Dauphin. Regardless of the danger to others, or any feelings he might have for those others, he had to secure the heir to the throne first. If he was lucky, the group would still be near the small covered carriage they took to reach the stream. That would mean d’Artagnan could potentially get the baby and the women back into it, and he and the Guards could defend it as the driver prepared to race back toward the palace. But he didn’t feel as though he’d been lucky up to now, and he didn’t expect to be lucky again. So he’d have to make decisions as the situation unfolded, and he trusted his instincts in a fight.

Well, he used to. The faces of the Inseparables flashed into his mind as he drew nearer to the stream and slowed his horse to a brisk trot so as not to startle anyone into rash actions. He’d had a gut feeling about how to bring Baudin to justice, but he had expected to be able to get the men he had come to call brothers on side to make the plan work. But it had all fallen apart, and now here he was, one man, still wishing he had friends beside him, and racing headlong into God knew what, with the same purpose in mind: foil Baudin’s plans. Only this time, if he failed, it would be more than he who would suffer.

He shook his head as though to remove the thoughts that were disheartening him, and he listened. He could hear the sound of flowing water, a few birds, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees. He moved on a bit more, stopping his horse when the sound of light laughter and a woman’s voice reached his ears. They couldn’t have been there too long, he calculated quickly. Perhaps he still had time. 

D’Artagnan spurred his horse gently, moving closer ever-so-quietly toward the voices he was hearing. He looked around him, up and into the trees, wondering how many men were hiding in them, and how much time he had before everything came crashing down around him. As he rounded a bend in the path he saw an opening ahead of him, where the royal carriage had stopped and the Dauphin and his carers and guardians were out and about. Immediately, he saw the infant in the arms of Lady Marguerite. He rode in until he was only a few feet from her, constantly surveying the area around them, trying to see if Constance was with them and not seeing her—another fear that he could shed, making it easier to do what he had to do without feeling torn. 

D’Artagnan continued to scan the trees, the water, the path behind him, the path beyond. No one was emerging... yet. They would want the Dauphin outside the carriage, he understood; the group was more vulnerable on foot, less likely to be able to flee. He counted four people besides Marguerite and the Dauphin: another woman, most likely a wet nurse; the driver of the carriage, and two Red Guards—newer recruits, if d’Artagnan was correct. He couldn’t remember seeing their youthful faces at court before.

He got off his horse and moved steadily but quickly to Marguerite’s side. “Get back in the carriage,” he said in a low voice.

“What?” Marguerite asked with a puzzled smile. She rocked the baby lightly in her arms.

“There’s a threat to the Dauphin,” d’Artagnan said, his expression calm and unrevealing. “Get in the carriage, and head back to the palace. Now.”

Marguerite looked as if she was about to say something, but the look on d’Artagnan’s face stilled her voice. Her smile disappeared and she walked immediately away to obey. D’Artagnan nodded as the driver moved in to ask her what was required, and one of the two Guards approached.

“You have come from the King?” the Guard asked.

D’Artagnan nodded. “There are people hidden nearby who are going to try and kidnap the Dauphin. We need to get them back to the palace.”

For a second nothing happened. Then, looking around, the Guard drew his sword, prompting d’Artagnan to do the same. Had the man spotted the hidden attackers? 

In the blink of an eye there were men flowing from the trees, running from heaven knew where out into the open. D’Artagnan glanced over to the carriage, saw Marguerite frozen in her tracks in fear, the driver’s hand still on her arm about to guide her in. “Get out!” d’Artagnan screamed. “Get out, _now!”_

The shouted order seemed to break her trance, and as she took a step into the carriage, d’Artagnan saw the driver pull out his pistol, check briefly that it was prepared, and fire. One of the approaching men fell. Relieved that the driver at least had hold of his senses, the musketeer turned his attention to the remaining men. There were five of them, now that the driver had stopped one. Three of them headed toward the carriage, and two toward him and the young Guard. But before d’Artagnan had a chance to make a run toward the ones threatening the Dauphin, he found himself at the business end of the sword of the Guard.

“I’m not part of the ambush!” d’Artagnan protested. “We’ve got to protect the Dauphin!” But when the Guard put himself on the offensive, the reality registered in the Gascon’s mind: the Guard was one of Baudin’s men.

 _“No!”_ d’Artagnan yelled. Realizing that the odds were now firmly stacked against him, and not knowing if the other Guard was also in on the plot, d’Artagnan locked eyes with the Guard in front of him and raised his sword to fight. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry. The young traitor was skilled and strong. D’Artagnan used all his training to fend the man off, fear for the Dauphin and desperation overriding the increasing pain in his shoulder that was starting to travel down his arm, making his fingers feel numb and uncoordinated. He gripped his sword as tightly as he could to compensate.

Two of the newly-arrived men came up alongside the Guard to join in the fray. D’Artagnan roared and pulled out his _main gauche_ to try and keep them at bay. He threw his eyes around, trying to find a place where he could avoid being surrounded. Meantime his sword found its mark on one of the men’s shoulder, having been deflected from his chest. The man howled and backed off, just momentarily, and as the Guard’s sword grazed his neck, d’Artagnan spun unexpectedly and drove his _main gauche_ into the other man’s stomach. Time seemed to freeze for a second, and as the attacker crumbled, d’Artagnan removed his knife and looked up to see the barrel of the Guard’s pistol aimed at his head. He ducked, then reached up with his left hand which was still holding the _main gauche_ and pulled the pistol toward him, losing the knife and unbalancing the Guard, who released the weapon and tumbled the ground, and d’Artagnan staggered backwards, struggling to maintain his footing.

As the man he’d stabbed in the shoulder lurched forward again, d’Artagnan turned the procured pistol on him and fired, sending him flying. Dropping the gun, he retrieved his knife and looked back at the Guard, who was regaining his footing, but hadn’t made it up yet. With little time to think, d’Artagnan pushed his sword into the man’s gut. Without waiting to see the effect, he withdrew the weapon and then ran toward the carriage, where he could see the other attackers doing their best to get inside, and the singular driver trying to keep them away.

As d’Artagnan had suspected, the second Guard was in on the plot, and it was taking very little to overpower the driver, who had only his pistol, and, having fired once, had no time to reload in the onslaught. “Coward!” cried d’Artagnan, and the closest of the attackers to him turned and advanced. Steel sang against steel, the two men pulling closer as d’Artagnan tried to disarm the large brute blocking him from Marguerite and the Dauphin. Once again his _main gauche_ proved invaluable, and when his opponent forced his sword arm back and away, making him grimace in pain and leaving him vulnerable, he brought the dagger in and plunged it into the man’s neck, turning his face away as blood bubbled out and, trembling and gurgling, the man collapsed. 

Realizing no one was running at him now, d’Artagnan looked around to regroup. A few yards away, he saw the driver on the ground, grievously wounded, and the second Guard sitting in front of the carriage, readying to speed away. One of the men from the trees was visible inside the carriage with the Dauphin and the women, and the last man turned toward d’Artagnan. The musketeer realized he was starting to slow down, the strain of carrying the fight for the most part on his own taking its toll, his grip on his sword not as strong as it was in the beginning of the fight. Still, he could not accept that he was about to lose the Dauphin, and the thought of watching him ride out of sight spurred him on. He began to rush headlong into the last man standing between him and those he needed to protect, but his adversary took advantage of his second’s distraction and rushed forward himself, slicing d’Artagnan along the ribs and piercing his left side. 

D’Artagnan gasped in pain and dropped his _main gauche,_ drawing his hand up to the wound. Forcing out stilted breaths through his teeth, he knew he couldn’t afford to give it more time and attention, and, angry at himself for being taken by surprise, he looked the man in the eye, disarmed him then with anger and little effort, for his adversary had been certain the Gascon was now disadvantaged and had lowered his own defences, and ran him through. 

Breathing hard, he lowered his head for a second or two and tried to push away the pain of his new wounds and his shoulder. When he looked up, he cursed his momentary weakness as he saw the carriage moving away. Pulling out his pistol, he took aim at the Guard driving the coach and fired. He missed, his arm wavering from the strain on his shoulder, and, knowing he had no other option, he ran for his horse, intending to follow. 

Reaching the men he’d downed first, he retrieved two unfired pistols, knowing it would take more than good riding to catch up and hoping he could manage true aim at least once. Standing up pulled on the new injuries, and his vision swam as he gripped the horn of his horse’s saddle and mounted. This had to end soon, he knew; he wasn’t going to last much longer. 

The sound of galloping horses reached his ears, and from seemingly out of nowhere, d’Artagnan saw Athos, Porthos, and Aramis appear. He knew he should feel heartsick, but right now all he could feel was relief, and as his own horse started to run after the carriage, the trio’s mounts came up alongside to join him. “The Dauphin is in the carriage,” he panted to Aramis, who was closest. “The Guard driving—he’s in on a plot to kidnap—to kidnap—”

It was taking all d’Artagnan had to stay on horseback, and he couldn’t get the words out. But apparently no more were needed. 

“We’re on it!” Aramis shouted back, and he urged his horse to run faster, Athos and Porthos joining him. Soon the Inseparables were out of sight, and when d’Artagnan heard a shout of warning and then a gunshot, he knew that it was all over. As his own horse came around the bend in the path, he saw the carriage stopped, the Guard on the ground, dead or close to it, with Athos shielding Marguerite and the other woman, who were distressed, from the sight; Porthos firmly handling the attacker who had been inside the carriage; and Aramis cradling the Dauphin in his arms.

The group looked up when they heard d’Artagnan’s horse, the musketeers ready to defend the Dauphin, but relaxing when they saw only the Gascon. “He’s safe,” Aramis told d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan nodded, and then, with one more urgent thing to do, he turned his horse around and headed back to the palace, leaving the men he had once called his brothers to look after the Dauphin.

* TM * TM * TM *

“Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan greeted. Bursting back into the palace, he was mercifully not rebuffed when he asked to be granted an immediate audience with the King. It had taken d’Artagnan some time to get back, having ridden farther than he’d expected, and finding the need to do so more slowly due to his injuries, but he had moved as fast as he could, hoping beyond hope that Tréville was still there. He was pleased to discover that the Captain was with the King in the same room in which d’Artagnan and Baudin had originally met with the monarch on their return. Rochefort and Baudin were also there, but the Queen was absent.

The King gasped when he saw the bloodied, dirty, and bedraggled musketeer before him. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

D’Artagnan tried to bow but found he could only do so part way before his sword wound made him stop. He bit his lip and dipped his head instead out of respect. “Your Majesty, I must speak to you right now.”

Louis looked at the others and then back to the musketeer. “Interesting that you didn’t see fit to do so before. And now you show up looking like you’ve just been in a scuffle—”

“Sire, there’s been an attempt to kidnap the Dauphin.”

Any further humiliating words on the King’s lips died at d’Artagnan’s words. He stood up from his throne, clearly frightened. “Where is he?” he asked, his face white and drawn.

“He’s fine, Your Majesty. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos will be bringing him back here soon, I’m sure. They will ensure no harm comes to him.”

“What happened? How do you know about this?” the King demanded.

“I know, Your Majesty, because Antoine Baudin told me about it on our way back here.” With a glance at Baudin, who was looking back at him, expressionless, d’Artagnan added, “It was his plan to take the Dauphin when he was taken for his daily outing, in order to force your hand in regards to the Protestants and their rights in France.”

Tréville stood up straighter, Rochefort raised an eyebrow, and Baudin was immediately outraged. “That is ridiculous, Sire!” he exclaimed, as Louis looked from d’Artagnan to his childhood friend, shocked. “I have never heard such nonsense!”

“You don’t have to believe me,” d’Artagnan continued. “You can see it for yourself.” He drew out a parchment from underneath his cloak. “He kept track of all his plans. This was in his saddlebag.” Louis’s eyes widened as Tréville took the offered document. “The Dauphin’s life was going to be spared in exchange for concessions granting rights and freedoms to the Protestants that extend well beyond the Edict of Nantes. And they would make sure you were aware how easy it would be for them to take him again, if you ever reneged on your promises.”

Tréville spoke up. “There’s a map here showing the route the Dauphin’s party takes every day,” he said. Furrowing his brow, he added, “There are also instructions on building up a weapons cache in Anet, and other activities that seem to point to the truth of d’Artagnan’s words, Your Majesty.”

The King frowned at his friend. “Antoine?”

Baudin glared at d’Artagnan. “It’s not true, Louis. I could never betray you as he says. Perhaps he is covering his own misdeeds.”

The King clearly wanted to believe Baudin. “D’Artagnan, can you prove this?” he demanded.

“The other musketeers will give evidence, Sire. They also observed Monsieur Baudin’s desire to change things by force.” D’Artagnan sucked in a breath as the pain in his side spiked. “I witnessed almost everything myself by pretending to go along with him. He had threatened to kill the other musketeers if I didn’t cooperate. I stopped or mitigated as much as I could. But the full plans are on that parchment.”

If he hadn’t been feeling so poorly, d’Artagnan might have felt more sympathy toward the King, whose eyes, now wide and angry, also held immense sadness at the betrayal of someone he trusted and loved. But he was distracted by his own problems, and so he just watched, impassive, as Louis steeled himself and made his decision.

“Take him away,” the King said to Rochefort, a definite tremble in his voice. “Get him as far away from me as possible. Lock him in the Bastille, and when we know the truth for certain, I shall decide what is to become of him.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Rochefort replied. He gestured for two of the guards who always stood nearby to remove Baudin, who protested loudly, cursing d'Artagnan and hurling accusations at him. Then he followed them out, leaving d’Artagnan and Tréville alone with the King.

Louis turned back to d’Artagnan and demanded to know the whole story of their journey, once the musketeers learned of Baudin’s treachery. D’Artagnan explained how Baudin had approached him many times about how he felt about what happened when he and the King were kidnapped by LeMaître, and then how he courted the Gascon’s favor all through their time in Vassy, until he forced the young musketeer to choose to help, or watch his brothers be killed. D’Artagnan detailed how he had wanted to have the help of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but that he found himself with no opportunity to tell them what was happening, then told the King that anything they had done that might seem untoward would have been an attempt on their part to make d’Artagnan see sense, and that they had not actually done anything that could be considered treason, even though d’Artagnan, himself, would understand if the King found the Gascon to blame.

As the young man spoke, the King’s expression changed from angry and self-righteous, to dismayed, and even a little ashamed. When d’Artagnan finished his story, the monarch nodded and said, “You said when we were captured by those thugs, d’Artagnan, that I was a good man who deserved your respect. I feel I have not lived up to that assessment. I offered you a reprimand after you did all you could to keep me safe, and then in the wake of that, you put yourself in danger again to protect me, and my son, even at the peril of losing all you hold dear to you. Your musketeer friends must applaud this act of bravery on their behalf.”

D’Artagnan shook his head slowly. “I don’t think they do, Sire. The things I have done have made me unworthy of their brotherhood.” When the King could think of nothing to say in return, d’Artagnan added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry to have put you in a position of having to decide what to do with someone you considered a close friend.”

The King frowned. “I am torn between being a sovereign, and being a friend. It is not easy to be two opposing things. You wanted to remain a soldier when I asked you to be an executioner,” he said. “Now I understand why you said no.” D’Artagnan lowered his head, acknowledging the King’s unspoken apology. “I wish I could refuse the double mantle as well.” D’Artagnan remained quiet. “You did an honorable thing, d’Artagnan. You gave up everything you held dear for the safety of the House of Bourbon. It will not be forgotten.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes. The cost was high, unbearable, but finally, finally his King understood he was faithful. “Thank you, Sire.”

He tried to bow, and found himself swooning. It was Tréville who caught him by the elbow before he hit the floor. “I’m sorry—sorry,” d’Artagnan muttered. “I just need to get back to the garrison.”

“Nonsense,” the King said. “You shall be attended to here.” He snapped his fingers and a page rushed from the doorway. “Summon the physician and have d’Artagnan looked after. Make sure he gets the best possible care. Give him whatever he needs.”

The page nodded and scurried off. “You will always have a friend here, d’Artagnan,” the King said. "My gratitude and that of the Queen will ensure you are always welcome at court.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan replied.

The King ordered that d’Artagnan be taken to a private salon, and that Tréville stay behind so they could discuss what needed to be done about Vassy, Anet, and other villages corrupted by Baudin. At that moment, another page entered, announcing the arrival of the musketeers and the Dauphin. D’Artagnan sighed in equal parts relief and sadness, and let himself be led away.

* TM * TM * TM *

Comments massively appreciated!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!  
> Thanks so much to everyone who’s read, favorited, followed, and especially REVIEWED! To those I can’t thank (guests, etc.), your comments have been welcome as well, and I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to join in my little escapade!
> 
> Finally an ending… more notes after it finishes. PLEASE do tell me what you think here! Did I do the boys proud?  
>  * TM * TM * TM *

D’Artagnan was grateful for the ministrations of the King’s physician, catching his breath a few times while his side was cleaned and wrapped, and biting his lip way too hard when his shoulder was manipulated. Dressings, pain draughts, and sleep were prescribed, in large quantities, but though d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to fall into a heavy slumber and forget all about the last two weeks, he felt more than a little uncomfortable sleeping in the palace, so the draughts were sent on to the garrison, and after nodding agreement to all the physician’s instructions close to an hour later, he made his way out of the private rooms and toward one of the exits, weary to the boneboth physically and mentally.

He was nearly out of the palace when he heard Rochefort calling to him. “So, being romantic can be a good thing after all,” the Comte observed.

D’Artagnan turned around and saw Rochefort standing a few feet away. The Gascon said nothing. Though things had turned out as well as could be expected, the “romantic” label still stung him, as he knew it had been used by a king judging his every move, and doubting his loyalty.

Rochefort approached him. “I’m told you succeeded in foiling Baudin by feigning agreement with his machinations, and that you kept the musketeers in the dark about it all.”

“More or less,” d’Artagnan replied shortly.

“Trying to protect them from any consequences in case things didn’t go to plan,” the Comte guessed.

“They can protect themselves,” d’Artagnan answered. 

“In either case, it worked,” Rochefort acknowledged, although the tone made d’Artagnan uncomfortable. Something about this man would always make him feel ill at ease. “But now you’ve alienated your closest friends.”

D’Artagnan almost visibly flinched. “I did what needed to be done. I don’t regret it.” 

“Perhaps,” Rochefort considered, with a small tilt of his head. “I’m sure the King and Queen are grateful.”

“It was my duty,” d’Artagnan said. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He offered a small nod, then turned and walked away.

“D’Artagnan,” called Rochefort. When the musketeer stopped again, he continued, “The infiltration of the Red Guards happened because of some bad decisions that will not be repeated. The regiment will be thoroughly investigated and cleared of any... bad blood. If you find that you can’t continue being a musketeer after everything you did to achieve your victory, you may find the Red Guard an honorable group of men to join. I’m sure we could find room for you among our ranks.”

D’Artagnan’s already almost unbearably aching head nearly exploded at the offer, and he felt his stomach turn sickeningly as a flush rushed from his head to his toes. Rochefort was right in one way: staying a musketeer was going to be difficult at best, impossible at worst. But he would never, ever consider accepting a commission with the Red Guards. Still, it begged the question: what was to become of him now?

“I’ll take my chances,” he replied over his shoulder. Then he walked away.

* TM * TM * TM *

Stepping outside, standing at the top of the long staircase, d’Artagnan took in and let out a wistful breath. It was over, he thought, gratefully. It was really over. No more looking over his shoulder all the time, no more watching everything he said to make sure he wasn’t giving anything away, no more fighting with himself about having to keep Athos, Aramis, and Porthos in the dark lest he put them, and himself, in danger. 

And no more brotherhood with the Inseparables. That was the one thing he couldn’t change about everything that they had gone through, he knew. Yes, he had had noble intentions: protect the King, protect the Dauphin, stop Baudin, protect the musketeers. But he had lied to his brothers, he had pushed them away from him, and worst of all, he had allowed Porthos to get hurt in the blast at the barn. Everything he had done had been the exact opposite of what was expected of him as a musketeer, as a man of honor, as a trusted brother. Athos was right: he had shamed his father’s name, and that of the musketeers. He had no place among them now.

Looking out, he saw Aramis and Porthos standing near their horses, not far from the bottom of the stairs, and he sighed as he realized he would have to pass them in order to reach his own animal. Perhaps he could just slip away quietly, stay in his quarters until he felt well enough to travel, take meals when he saw the others were gone, then humbly resign his commission to Captain Tréville and depart. Where he would go, he did not know. But he couldn’t stay on as a musketeer, not doing what he had done. The shame of it made him sick just to think about. He had followed through on his plan to stop Baudin, regardless of the cost; he would do the same now.

Descending the stairs, d’Artagnan walked purposefully toward his horse, his gaze averted from Aramis and Porthos as he came within earshot. He knew they had questions. He knew they would wonder about why he had been willing to save the Dauphin, when he was so aligned to Baudin and his plot. But he couldn’t talk to them now. If he spoke, if he looked them in the eye, he knew would break down, and there would be even more shame upon him. So he passed them, unspeaking, although he knew their eyes were upon him, and sped up his steps when he thought he could do so without appearing like a frightened child.

“You stupid, stupid boy.”

The words struck him from behind, and d’Artagnan’s body physically reacted. His feet refused to take him another single step, and his head instantly dropped. His chest constricted, making it harder to breathe, and he felt the back of his eyes sting with sudden, shame-filled tears. He was used to harsh words from Athos; he had sometimes taken them almost as a sign of affection after a time, and he knew when to hear the words themselves, and when to look for the true emotion behind them. But when they came from gentle Aramis, the words were a knife to the heart, and worse. He immediately felt a wound open, and he bled. 

“Porthos and Athos discovered the truth under the chapel in Anet. Tréville told us the rest when we returned with the Dauphin. Why did you run away with Baudin yesterday? Why did you not tell us?”

D’Artagnan felt like he was suffocating. “I—I had to—” he stuttered, gulping for air as emotion rocketed up from his gut and threatened to spill from his eyes, out through his voice.

“Do you not remember our motto? _All for one?”_ Aramis persisted. “Of us all, I thought you would be the one with the most faith in the solidarity of musketeers.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes. He knew Aramis was right. He owed them some explanation. But what could he say? He stayed unmoving, unseeing, as he opened his eyes and stammered a reply. “When Baudin’s men pulled me away from you that night… I felt so—so… sick. Everything hurt…” the lad said through difficult, heaving breaths. “I—I couldn’t think clearly. But I thought—I thought if we were together… we could foil his plans and draw him back to Paris, and then…” He burned with shame now. He remembered sitting in that room in Vassy, in so much pain and wishing for nothing more than to be reunited with his brothers. His weakness in the house that night with Baudin had led to the loss of his friends, and to all the anguish that followed. Then everything came tumbling out, his speech halting in his devastation. “But I couldn’t—I couldn’t tell you because there was always someone in earshot. Baudin had people watching all the time. And he said he would— _kill_ you, and I couldn’t take the chance. So I thought if—if I tried to stop him on my own and failed, then I would have been the _only_ one the King condemned, not _all of—all of—”_ The words were getting stuck in his throat. He could feel himself choking, losing the battle against his emotions. “And you—you would all be safe. But Porthos got hurt—and—and I lied so you would stay away, but—”

Suddenly a gloved hand clasped him by the scruff of his neck, and d’Artagnan gasped as he felt himself being pulled until he was nestled in the crook of the sharpshooter’s neck. “One for all,” Aramis whispered, understanding now what they had been missing. His grip on the young man tightened, as though seeking to confirm he was truly there. “We were thinking _all for one,_ but you were acting as _one for all,”_ he realized, stunned at how obvious it now seemed. “You stayed loyal to us, and to the King, even when we could not comprehend what you were doing.” D’Artagnan nodded, overwhelmed and unable to speak. He could feel the rise and fall of the marksman’s chest against him, the warmth of his breath in his hair. Aramis stayed quiet for a moment, as though absorbing the knowledge. Then he murmured softly, “You are our brother, d’Artagnan. And through God’s great goodness, we are yours. I promise you, we will do our best to always be worthy of such a gift. And we will never be pushed away. Even when things look their worst.”

D’Artagnan’s knees felt weak. He was sure he was trembling. It had been such a long, long journey back to Paris, and he had almost begun to live with the constant ache in his heart over the necessary loss of the three men whom he loved so much. Now, with Aramis’s declaration of devotion, he was filling, overflowing, with relief, and he felt a degree of gratitude and thankfulness that he was sure he could never express adequately.

The tiniest sob escaped him, and suddenly the hand grasping his neck loosened and an arm encircled his back, gently rubbing, consoling, reassuring. “Oh, _petit frère,”_ murmured Aramis as the lad’s dam finally burst and he wept openly. “The things you have done to yourself in the name of brotherhood.”

“I am sorry,” d’Artagnan managed through the now easily flowing tears. “I am sorry, Aramis. I am sorry, Porthos.”

“Y’ don’t need to be,” came the gruff but soothing voice of Porthos. D’Artagnan felt the big man’s hand on his good shoulder. “It takes time to get used to being watched over. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real. I guess we’re still learnin’ that, too.”

“But you knew, Porthos,” Aramis said in practically a whisper. “You knew.”

“Yeah. I can read him like a book, this one,” the big musketeer said, offering a shrug and a smile. “It works both ways, d’Artagnan,” he added gently. “We’re here for you, too, yeah?”

D’Artagnan managed a small nod, but didn’t move from the comfort of his friends’ touch, and so he missed the fond look that passed between his two companions, whose own eyes were now glassy with emotion. Despite all his arguments to the contrary, d’Artagnan was still just a boy in many ways; his display here was a testament to that, and they found it endearing in a way they had never expected to.

As though suddenly aware of being vulnerable in front of the others, the Gascon pulled himself together and drew himself up, snuffled his breathing clear, and swiped his face clean quickly with one hand. He looked into the eyes of Porthos and Aramis and found acceptance there. His heart lightened, and he understood what joy felt like. Then he asked, “The Dauphin?”

“He’s fine,” Aramis assured him with a smile that offered pride in the young man’s actions. “Everyone is safe and unharmed.”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Except, perhaps, those whom you fought,” Aramis added.

“Yeah,” Porthos added with a chuckle. “You gave ’em quite a run for their money.”

“How did you know to go to the stream?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Some of Baudin’s men met us on the road while we were trying to catch up with you yesterday,” Aramis explained. “They tried to stop us from finding you again. But we weren’t having any of that, and after we fought, Joubert talked. Thanks to Porthos’s fine powers of persuasion.”

Porthos smiled, cheekiness mixed with something a little more dangerous dancing in his eyes. “I’m charming like that,” he said.

Aramis picked the story back up. “Since we already knew you were only pretending to work with Baudin, we suspected you’d try to stop the plot to kidnap the Dauphin on your own, and we decided to come to your assistance.”

“I thought the Red Guards would help me,” d’Artagnan admitted, still shaking. “Turns out they were in on it.”

“You did well,” Aramis praised him. “And no matter how wonderful the King’s physician is, you know I’ll be looking you over myself later when we get back to the garrison.”

D’Artagnan’s relief at knowing he could accept the comfort of his friend’s caring attention pushed away any instinct he had to avoid medical poking and prodding. “Thank you,” he said, softly.

The trio stayed quietly, soothingly, in each other’s company for a moment, and then d’Artagnan asked, “Where’s Athos?”

“He’s still with Tréville and the King,” Porthos answered. “There’s a lot to be worked out now, apparently.”

“Ah—they appear to be done,” Aramis put in suddenly, nodding toward something behind them. 

D’Artagnan turned to see that Athos had left the palace, and was looking out toward the trio on the grass. D’Artagnan took hesitant, halting steps toward the stairs as Athos began his descent, Aramis and Porthos protectively following a few steps behind. The Gascon stopped at the foot of the stairs, and Athos stood at the top of the final landing and looked down at him sternly. There was silence between them for what seemed like an eternity. Then at last, Athos spoke.

“You led with your heart,” he said, his voice steady, his eyes piercing. 

D’Artagnan gave the tiniest uncomfortable nod of acknowledgement. 

“In spite of every lesson I have tried to teach you,” his mentor accused: “the countless times I’ve warned you that your hot-blooded Gascon temper could be the death of you.”

D’Artagnan dropped his gaze. He could not deny the truth of it. 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos said strongly. 

It was a command. No matter the hurt or the distance between them, the young man was always drawn to obey Athos’s voice. He raised his head and looked at him, trying to stem the trembling he could feel in his body. D’Artagnan waited. Waited while his mind spun with a thousand thoughts at once. He knew he deserved whatever Athos had to say to him now, knew that although Porthos and Aramis had welcomed him back into the fold, it would be a different story with Athos. He had seen the hurt in the man’s eyes, heard the pain in his voice when he had tried to convince d’Artagnan not to follow Baudin and told him he had shamed the musketeers. It would be impossible for d’Artagnan to avoid Athos when they were both in the garrison. Perhaps he would have to give up being a musketeer, the thing he wanted more than anything in the world, after all. Despite the forgiveness of Aramis and Porthos, he knew he could not bear to be in Athos’s presence, but shunned. He would just have to work out where to go, how to live, perhaps he could stay that long. A week, maybe two at the most. And then—

“Your skill as a musketeer will save your life. But it is your heart that will one day make you the greatest of us all.” D’Artagnan felt lightheaded at the hope the words conveyed. And he could not stop himself from releasing a small cry of joy when Athos held open his arms and said, “I have grievously wronged you. Please, brother. Allow me to apologize.”

With a gasp, d’Artagnan bounded up the stairs to meet Athos and was enveloped in a firm, unrelenting embrace. Unashamed of his outburst, for as a Gascon he was prone to strong emotion, both fiery and loving, d’Artagnan stayed greedily in his friend’s arms, and wept. “Athos, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, trying over and over again to seek the forgiveness already given for his deceptions.

Taken aback by the young man’s earnestness, it took a moment for Athos to find his voice, and he simply reveled in at last being united with the young man whom he loved. “Quiet now, boy,” he murmured eventually, when his heart dislodged from his throat and fell back into his chest, beating fit to burst; “it is I who needs forgiveness. I should never have doubted that you are at heart a musketeer, and a loyal brother.”

“I tried… I tried…” d’Artagnan stuttered, certain that he was blubbering but not caring. “I _did_ remember what you taught me. One for all… _one for all_ … I couldn’t live with myself if you—if you paid for my failure—”

Athos ran his hand along the young man’s hair, stroking it and soothing d’Artagnan as the lad released all the tension, fear, and heartache of their journey home. “We suffered nothing,” he said softly. “You paid the price for us all. You are the finest of brothers, d’Artagnan. Every lesson has been learned and taken to heart. Even though we… _I…_ refused to recognize it. You bring honor to your father’s name, and to that of the musketeers.”

Porthos and Aramis, grinning widely at the bottom of the stairs, waited patiently until d’Artagnan had cried his fill, and when Athos relaxed his hold on the lad and the pair came to meet them, Porthos smiled even more broadly and said, “This calls for a drink.”

“Perhaps later,” Aramis countered, having seen and inspected the draughts being sent to the garrison, and noting the lines of pain and exhaustion on the Gascon’s drawn but relieved face. Taking d’Artagnan’s other arm, for Athos had not yet released him, and guiding him toward the horses, he said, “Right now, I believe _sleep_ is what our young friend needs most. Am I right?” he asked the lad in question.

“I _am_ quite tired,” d’Artagnan admitted, earning raised eyebrows from his friends, who never heard him say anything that even _resembled_ an admission of being at less than peak condition. “But if Porthos wants to go to the tavern—”

_“Porthos,”_ said Athos over the young man’s objection, “shall go and procure us the finest wine he can find in my quarters, and then bring it to your room at the garrison. And we shall drink together, as brothers, when you are well. In the meantime, we will stay with you until you are fit to return to duty, as I believe not one of us could bear to be without your company a minute longer.”

His eyes shining as his heart overflowed, d’Artagnan laughed shakily and accepted the compromise. Porthos noted with a mischievous grin that the finest wine they were likely to find in Athos’s rooms was bottled last week, while Aramis and Athos debated how often to allow d’Artagnan out of his quarters for the next seven days, which was the length of time the medic decided would be needed for the Gascon’s recovery. Athos recommended once a day, for a meal in the garrison yard. Aramis thought that was too often, as their youngest would find a way to get into trouble even on that short jaunt.

“What if we tie him to the bench?” Athos suggested thoughtfully.

“Now that might work,” Aramis pondered.

D’Artagnan laughed, delighted in spite of being the object of their joking. “Do I get any say in this?”

“None,” Aramis replied happily. 

And the deliberation continued. Growing more and more tired, and looking forward to that first sleep knowing Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were truly by his side, d’Artagnan let all the banter wash over him, grateful beyond words at being able to be part of this brotherhood again. He let their laughter and their reassuring touches bring him home.

* TM * TM * TM * TM * TM * TM * TM *

Final note! This story brought itself to a conclusion while I still had two scenes waiting in the wings… They couldn’t be fit into this story without changing it, but they do add some depth to it. Shall I do a “deleted scenes” story? Just two chapters long, but important companions. Let me know what you think! If you’d like to see them, I'm happy to do it! But please let me know what you think of this as it stands on its own! Cheers! :)


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